PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


PERCY     BYSSHE     SHELLEY 


EDITED    BY 

EDWARD     DOWDEN 


NEW    YORK 
THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL   &    CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


\ ,  ... 


CONTENTS. 


Introduction  by  Edward 
Dowden 

Preface  by  Mrs.  Shelley  to 
First  Collected  Edition, 
1839 

Postscript  in  Second  Edition 
of  1839  

Preface  by  Mrs.  Shelley  to 
the  Volume  of  Posthumous 
Poems,  published  in  1824 

Queen  Mab  (1813)  .... 

Shelley's  Notes 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .     . 

The    D.lmon   of    the    World 
A  Fragment  (181 5)  .     . 

Alastor;     or     the     Spirit    of 
Solitude  (1815)     .     .     . 
Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .     .     . 

The  Revolt  of  Islam  (181 7) 
Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .     .     . 

Prince    Athanase  ;      A   Frag 

MENT  (l8l  7)         .       .       .       . 

Rosalind  and  Helen  (1817-18) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .  .  . 
Julian  and  Maddalo  (1818) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .  .  . 
Prometheus  Unbound  (1819) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .  .  . 
The  Cenci  (1819)    .... 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .     . 


19 


94 

104 
116 

117 
224 

226 
232 
247 
248 
259 
259 

0 

308 
352 


The  Mask  of  Anarchy  (1819) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .      .      . 
Peter  Pell  the  Third  (1819) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .      .      . 
Letter     to      Maria     Gisporxe 

(1S20)       

The  Witch  of  Atlas  (1820) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .      .      . 
CEdipus   Tyrannus;    or   Sweli 
foot  the  Tyrant  (1820) 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  . 
Epipsychidion  (1821)  . 
Adonais  (1821)  .  .  . 
Hellas  (1821)     .     .     . 

Shelley's  Notes  .      . 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  . 
Fragments  of   an   Unfinishe 

Drama  ( 1822)  .... 
Charles  the  First  (1822)  . 
The  Triumph  of  Life  (1822) 
Early  Poems  (18 14-15)  — 

Stanza,  written  at  Bracknell  . 

Stanza — April  1814     . 

To  Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin 

To :  "  Yet  look  on  me  — 

take  not  thine  eyes  away  " 

Mutability 

On  Death:  "The  pale,  the  cold, 
and  the  moony  smile  "        .      . 

A  Summer  Evening  Churchyard, 
Lechlade,  Gloucestershire 


PACE 

355 
360 

361 

375 

376 
381 
393 

394 
408 

409  .,. 
422  J*~ 

434  *^ 

453 
455 

456 
461 
474 

485 
4S5 
485 

486 
486 

486 
487 


X^ 


'■■■    ! 
4     / 


CONTENTS. 


Early  Poems  — 

To  Coleridge 488 

L^-To  Wordsworth 488 

Feelings  of    a  Republican  on    the 

Fall  of  Bonaparte     ....  488 
Lines.    "The    cold    earth    slept 

below" 489 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  ....  489 

Poems  written  in  18 16  — 

The  Sunset 490 

\,/rIymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty      .  491 
Lines    written    in    the    Vale    of 

Chamouni 492 

Mont  Blanc 492 

Fragment:   Home 495 

Fragment:    Helen  and  Henry    .  495 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley       ....  495 


the 


Poems  written  in  1817  — 
Marianne's  Dream  .... 
To  Constantia,  Singing 

To  Constantia 

Fragment :   To  One  Singing  . 
A  Fragment :   To  Music    . 
Another  Fragment  to  Music  . 
"  Mighty  Eagle  "    .      .     . 
To  the  Lord  Chancellor    . 
To  William  Shelley 
From  the  Original  Draft  o 

Poem  to  William  Shelley  . 
On  Fanny  Godwin 
Lines:    "That  time  is  dead  for 

ever,  child  " 

Death:     "They  die — the  dead 

return  not  — misery  '* 

Otho 

Fragments  supposed  to  be  parts 

of  Otho 

Fragment :   A  Cloud-Chariot 
Fragment:    To  One  freed  from 

Prison 503 


496 
498 
499 
499 
499 
499 
499 
499 
5oi 

502 

502 

502 

502 

502 

503 
503 


Poems  written  in  181 7  — 

Fragment :  Satan  at  Large  .  .  504 
Fragment:  Unsatisfied  Desire  .  504 
Fragment :  Love  Immortal  .  .  504 
Fragment :  Thoughts  in  Solitude     504 

/  Fragment:   The  Fight  was  o'er       504 

A  Hate-Song 504 

Lines  to  a  Critic 504 

^^Qzymandias  •     ■ i5°|/ 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  ....  \d% 

Poems  written  in  1818  — 

To  the  Nile 506 

Passage  of  the  Apennines       .     .      506 

The  Past 507 

To  Mary  — :  "  O  Mary  clear, 

that  you  were  here  "      .      .  507 

On  a  Faded  Violet 507 

Lines  written  among  the  Euga- 

nean  Hills 507 

Scene  from  "  Tasso "  .  .  .  .  511 
Song  for  "  Tasso  "       .     .      .     .      511 

To  Misery 512 

Stanzas    written     in     Dejection, 

near  Naples 

The  Woodman  and  the  Nightin- 
gale        

Marenghi 

Sonnet:    "Lift    not    the    painted 

veil  which  those  who  live  "  . 
Fragment :  To  Byron  .... 
Fragment:  Appeal  to  Silence  . 
Fragment :  The  Stream's  Margin 
Fragment :  A  Lost  Leader  .  . 
Fragment :  The  Vine  amid  Ruins 
Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .... 

Poems  written  in  1819  — 
Lines  written  during  the  Castle 

reagh  Administration 
Song  to  the  Men  of  England 
Similes  for  two  Political  Charac 

ters  of  1819 521 


513 

513 
515 

518 
518 
518 
519 
519 
5*9 
519 


520 
520 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Poems  written  in  1819  — 
Fragment:     To    the    People    of 

England 521 

Fragment:      "What    Men    gain 

fairly" 521 

A  New  National  Anthem  .      .     .  522 

Sonnet:    England  in  1819      .     .  522 
An    Ode :   To    the    Assertors    of 

Liberty 522 

Cancelled   Stanza:    "Gather,  O 

gather'' 523 

Ode  to  Heaven 523 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind     .      .     .  524 

An  Exhortation       .      .     .      .     .  525 

The  Indian  Serenade  .     .      .      .  526 
Cancelled  Passage  of  the  Indian 

Serenade 52^ 

To  Sophia  [Miss  Stacey]  .      .     .  526 

To  William  Shelley      ....  526 

To  William  Shelley      ....  527 

To  Mary  Shelley 527 

To  Mary  Shelley 527 

On  the  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da 

Vinci  in  the  Florentine  Gallery  527 

i/Love's  Philosophy 528 

Fragment :    "  Follow  to  the  deep 

wood's  Weeds  "       ....  528 

The  Birth  of  Pleasure  ....  528 

Fragment :   Love  the  Universe  .  528 
Fragment:    "A  gentle  Story  of 

two  Lovers  young "       .      .      .  528 

Fragment:   Love's  Atmosphere  .  528 

Fragment:   Fellowship  of  Souls  529 
Fragment :     Reminiscence     and 

Desire 529 

Fragment:   Forebodings  .      .      .  529 
Fragment:   Visitations   of    Calm 

Thoughts 529 

Fragment:   Poetry  and  Music     .  529 
Fragment :   The  Tomb  of  Mem- 
ory    529 

Fragment:   Song  of  the  Furies  .  529 


Poems  written  in  1819  — 
Fragment:    "  Wake  the  Serpent 

not " 530 

Fragment :   Rain  and  Wrind  .     .  530 

Fragment:   A  Tale  Untold     .      .  530 

Fragment:   To  Italy     ....  530 

Fragment :   Wine  of  Eglantine   .  530 

Fragment:   A  Roman's  Chamber  530 

Fragment:   Rome  and  Nature    .  530 
Variation    of    the    Lyric    to    the 

Moon 530 

Cancelled  Stanza  of  the  Mask  of 

Anarchy     .......  531 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  .     .     .     .  531 

Poems  written  in  1820  — 

The  Sensitive  Plant      .     .     .     .  531 
Cancelled  Passage  of   the  Sensi- 
tive Plant 536 

A  Vision  of  the  Sea     ....  536 

u^The  Cloud 540 

l^To  a  Skylark 541 

Ode  to  Liberty 542 

Cancelled  Passage  of  the  Ode  to 

Liberty 547 

To :    "I  fear  thy  kisses, 

gentle  maiden" 547 

Arethusa 548 

Song  of  Proserpine,  while  gather- 
ing Flowers  on  the   Plain   of 

Enna 549 

Hymn  of  Apollo 549 

Hymn  of  Pan 550 

The  Question 550 

The  Two  Spirits:  An  Allegory  .  550 

Ode  to  Naples 552 

Autumn:   A  Dirge 555 

The  waning  Moon 555 

To  the  Moon 555 

Death:     "Death   is    here    and 

death  is  there  " 55$ 

Liberty 555 


CONTENTS. 


Poems  written  in  1820  — 

Summer  and  Winter     ....  556 

The  Tower  of  Famine       .     .     .  556 

An  Allegory 557 

The  World's  Wanderers  .      .     .  557 
Sonnet:     "Ye    hasten     to     the 

grave!  What  seek  ye  there  "  557 

Lines  to  a  Reviewer    .      .     .     .  557 

Fragment  of  a  Satire  on  Satire  .  558 

Good  Night 558 

Buona  Notte 559 

Orpheus 559 

Fiordispina 561 

Time  Long  Past 562 

Fragment :  The  Deserts  of  Sleep  562 

Fragment :   Consequence  .      .      .  562 

Fragment:   A  Face      .     .  *  .      .  563 

Fragment:   Weariness       .      .      .  563 
Fragment:     Hope,     Fear,     and 

Doubt 563 

Fragment:    "Alas!   this    is    not 

what  I  thought  Life  was  "       .  563 

Fragment:   Milton's  Spirit    .      .  563 

Fragment :   Unrisen  Splendor     .  563 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  ....  563 

Poems  written  in  1821  — 

Dirge  for  the  Year 564 

To  Night 565 

Time 5^5 

Lines:    "  Far,  far  away,  O  ye"  565 

From  the  Arabic:   An  Imitation  566 

To  Emilia  Viviani 566 

The  Fugitives 566 

To :    "  Music,  when  soft 

voices  die " 5^7 

Song:    "Rarely,  rarely,   comest 

thou" 567 

Mutability 568 

Lines  written  on  hearing  the 
News  of  the  Death  of  Napo- 
leon        568 


Poems  written  in  1821  — 

Sonnet:   Political  Greatness  .     .  569 

The  Aziola 569 

A  Lament:    "  O  world  !  O  life! 

O  time  " 569 

Remembrance    .      .....  569 

To  Edward  Williams   .      .     .     .  570 

To :    "One   word  is  too 

often  profaned  "       ....  571 

To    :    "When    passion's 

trance  is  overpast "       .     .      .  571 

A  Bridal  Song 571 

Another  Version  of  the  Same     .  571 

Another  Version  of  the  Same     .  572 

Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  Fear  .  572 

Prologue  to  Hellas 573 

Fragments  written  for  Hellas     .  576 
Fragment:    "I  would   not    be  a 

King" 576 

Ginevra 576 

Evening:   Ponte  a  Mare,  Pisa    .  580 

The  Boat  on  the  Serchio  .      .      .  580 

Music 582 

Sonnet  to  Byron 582 

Fragment  on  Keats      ....  582 
Fragment:  "  Methought  I  was  a 

Billow  in  the  Crowd"  .     .      .  583 

To-morrow 583 

Stanza:  "  If  I  walk  in  Autumn's 

even  " 583 

Fragment :   A  Wanderer  .      .     .  583 
Fragment :     Peace     surrounding 

Life 583 

Fragment:    "I    Faint,  I    Perish 

with  my  Love  " 583 

Fragment:    "The   Lady  of   the 

South" 583 

Fragment :  The  Awakener    .      .  583 

Fragment:    Rain 5S3 

Fragment:    Ambushed    Dangers  583 
Fragment:    "And    that    I   walk 

thus  proudly  crowned "     .      .  584 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Poems  written  in  182 i  — 
Fragment:    "The  rude  Wind  is 

singing" 584 

Fragment:    "  Great  Spirit  "  .      .  584 
Fragment:    "O  Thou  Immortal 

Deity" 584 

Fragment:     False    Laurels    and 

True 584 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  ....  584 

Poems  written  in  1822  — 

The  Zucca 586 

The     Magnetic     Lady     to     her 

Patient 588 

[/'Lines:     "When    the     Lamp    is 

shattered" 588 

To  Jane:   The  Invitation  .      .     .  589 

To  Jane  :  The  Recollection  .      .  590 

With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane     .      .     .  591 
To  Jane:  "The  keen  Stars  were 

twinkling  " 592 

A  Dirge 592 

Lines  written  in  the  Bay  of  Lerici  592 
Lines:    "We    meet    not    as    we 

parted" 593 

The  Isle 593 

Fragment :  To  the  Moon      .     .  593 

Epitaph 593 

Note  by  Mrs.  Shelley  ....  593 

Translations  — 

Homer's     Hymn      to     Mercury 

(1820) 596 

Homer's    Hymn  to  Castor   and 

Pollux 612 

Homer's  Hymn  to  the  Moon      .  612 

Homer's  Hymn  to  the  Sun   .      .  613 
Homer's   Hymn   to   the    Earth: 

Mother  of  All 613 

Homer's  Hymn  to  Minerva  .     .  614 

Homer's  Hymn  to  Venus  (1818)  614 

The  Cyclops  of  Euripides  (1819)  615 


Translations  — 
Epigrams  — 

To  Stella 627 

Kissing  Helena 627 

Spirit  of  Plato 627 

Circumstance 627 

Fragment   of  the   Elegy  on  the 

Death  of  Adonis      ....     627 
Fragment   of  the   Elegy   on  the 

Death  of  Bion 628 

From    the    Greek    of     Moschus 

(1816) 628 

Pan,  Echo,  and  the  Satyr  .  .  629 
From  Virgil's  Tenth  Eclogue  .  629 
Sonnet  from  the  Italian  of  Dante 

(1816) 629 

The    First   Canzone  of  the  Con- 

vito  (1820) 630 

Matilda  gathering  Flowers  ( 1 820)  63 1 
Fragment  adapted  from  the  Vita 

Nuova  of  Dante  .....     632 
Sonnet  from  the  Italian  of  Caval- 

canti 632 

Scenes  from  Calderon's   Magico 

Prodigioso  (1822)    ....      632 
Scenes     from     Goethe's     Faust 

(1822) 643 

Juvenilia  — 

Verses  on  a  Cat 652 

Fragment:  Omens  (1807)  .  .  652 
Epitaphium  (1808)  ....  652 
In  Horologium  (1809)  .  .  .  652 
Song   from  the  Wandering  Jew 

(1809) -653 

Fragment   from  the    Wandering 

Jew  (1809) 653 

A  Dialogue:  "  For  my  dagger  is 

bathed    in    the    blood    of   the 

brave  "  (1809) 653 

To  the  Moonbeam  (1809)  .  .  654 
The  Solitary  '1810)    .     .     .     •     654 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PAGE 

Juvenilia  — 

Juvenilia  — 

To    Death:    "Death!  where  is 

The    Devil's    Walk:    A    Ballad 

thy  victory  "  (1810)     .      .     . 

654 

(1812)       

67I 

Love's  Rose  (1810)    .... 

655 

To  the  Queen  of  my  Heart   . 

674 

Eyes:  A  Fragment  (1810)    .     . 

655 

Appendix  — 

Poems   from   St.  Irvyne,  or  the 

Ugolino  (1821) 

675 

Rosicrucian  (published  1810) 

656 

From  Calderon's  Cisma  d'lngla- 

Posthumous  Fragments  of  Mar- 

terra (1821 ) 

676 

garet  Nicholson  (1810) 

66O 

Additional  Stanza  to  Ireland 

676 

Fragment:  "Tis  midnight  now 

•^Evening  —  To  Harriet 

676 

—  athwart  the  murky  air  " 

662 

To  Ianthe 

676 

Despair 

663 

The  Pine  Forest  of  the  Cascine 

Fragment :  ' '  Yes  !  all  is  past  — 

near  Pisa    ....... 

677 

swift  time  has  fled  away  "  . 

664 

Fragments 

677 

The  Spectral  Horseman 

665 

On  Robert  Emmet's  Grave    . 

678 

Melody  to  a  Scene  of  Former 

The  Retrospect :   Gym  Elan 

678 

Times 

666 

Fragment    of     a    Sonnet  —  To 

Stanza  from  a  Translation  of  the 

Harriet 

680 

Marseillaise  Hymn  .... 

666 

To  Harriet 

680 

Bigotry's  Victim  (1810?  1811). 

667 

Sonnet — To   a    Balloon    Laden 

On   an   Icicle  that   clung  to  the 

with  Knowledge       .... 

68 1 

Grass  of  a  Grave  ( 1 809  ?  1 8 1 1 ) 

667 

Sonnet  —  On    Launching    some 

Love  (181 1  ) 

668 

Bottles  Filled  with  Knowledge 

On  a    Fete   at   Carlton   House: 

into  the  Bristol  Channel     . 

681 

Fragment  (1811 )     .      .      .      . 

668 

Fragment  of  a  Sonnet :    Farewell 

To  a  Star  (1811) 

668 

to  North  Devon 

681 

To  Mary,  who  died  in  this  Opin- 

On Leaving  London  for  Wales  . 

681 

ion  (181 1)      

669 

Notes 

683 

A  Tale  of  Society  as  it  is :  From 
Facts,  181 1 

To  the  Republicans  of  North 
America  (1812) 

To  Ireland  (1812)       .... 

669 

671 
671 

List    of    Shelley's    Principal 
Writings  ....... 

Order  of  Poems 

Index  to  the  Poems     .... 

692 

695 
697 

To  Harriet:  A  Fragment  (1812) 

671 

Index  of  First  Lines  .... 

701 

SHELLEY'S   POETICAL  WORKS. 


QUEEN    MAB: 

A   PHILOSOPHICAL     POEM,    WITH    NOTES. 

Ecrasez  l'infame ! 

Correspondance  de  Voltaire. 

Avia  Pieridum  peragro  loca,  nullius  ante 
Trita  solo ;  juvat  integros  accedere  fonteis  ; 
Atque  haurire  :  juvatque  novos  decerpere  flores. 

Unde  prius  nulli  velarint  tempora  musae. 
Primum  quod  magnis  doceo  de  rebus ;  et  arctis 
Religionum  animos  nodis  exsolvere  pergo. 

Lucret.  lib.  iv. 


Ab?   TTOV   CTTUi,    Kdi    K0(7fl0V   (Ctl'TJcrtJ. 

A  rchimedes. 


TO  HARRIET  ***** 

Whose  is  the  love  that  gleaming  through 

the  world, 
Wards  off    the    poisonous    arrow   of    its 
scorn? 
Whose  is  the  warm  and  partial  praise, 
Virtue's  most  sweet  reward? 

Beneath  whose  looks  did  my  reviving  soul 
Riper  in  truth  and  virtuous  daring  grow  ? 
Whose  eyes  have  I  gazed  fondly  on, 
And  loved  mankind  the  more? 

Harriet  !    on    thine :  —  thou    wert    my 

purer  mind; 
Thou  wert  the  inspiration  of  my  song; 

Thine  are  these  early  wilding  flowers, 

Though  garlanded  by  me. 


Then  press  into  thy  breast  this  pledge  oi 

love; 
And  know,  though  time  may  change  and 
years  may  roll, 
Each  floweret  gathered  in  my  heart 
It  consecrates  to  thine. 


QUEEN  MAB. 

I. 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 
Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 

One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon 
With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ! 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 

When  throned  on  ocean's  wave 
It  blushes  o'er  the  world: 

Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful  ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 

Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 

Seized  on  her  sinless  soul? 

Must  then  that  peerless  form 

Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 

Without    a    beating    heart,    those    azure 

veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of 
snow, 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme, 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  mor- 
alize? 


QUEEN   jUAB. 


Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 

Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 

Chaseth  into  darkness? 

Will  Ianthe  wake  again, 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  her  smile? 

Yes !  she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motion- 
less, 
And  silent  those  sweet  lips, 
Once  breathing  eloquence, 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage, 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides   the   dark  blue   orbs   be- 
neath, 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed: 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride, 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  sound? 

'T  is  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells, 
Which,    wandering    on    the    echoing 
shore, 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening: 
'T  is  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh; 
'T  is  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep :     * 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the 
teints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 

Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  Fairy  Queen  ! 

Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air; 

Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 

And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light : 
These  the  Queen  of  spells  drew  in, 
She  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot, 

And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal 
car, 
Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently, 
Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 


I  Oh  !  not  the  visioned  poet  in  his  dreams, 
I   When    silvery  clouds    float    through  the 
wildered  brain, 
When    every  sight   of    lovely,  wild   and 
grand 
Astonishes,  enraptures,  elevates, 
When  fancy  at  a  glance  combines 
The  wondrous  and  the  beautiful,  — 
So  bright,  so  fair,  so  wild  a  shape 
Hath  ever  yet  beheld, 
As  that  which  reined  the  coursers  of  the 
air, 
And  poured  the  magic  of  her  gaze 
Upon  the  maiden's  sleep. 

The  broad  and  yellow  moon 
Shone  dimly  through  her  form  — 

That  form  of   faultless  symmetry; 

The  pearly  and  pellucid  car 

Moved  not  the  moonlight's  line: 
'T  was  not  an  earthly  pageant : 

Those  who  had  looked  upon  the  sight, 
Passing  all  human  glory, 
Saw  not  the  yellow  moon, 
Saw  not  the  mortal  scene, 
Heard  not  the  night-wind's  rush, 
Heard  not  an  earthly  sound, 
Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant, 
Heard  but  the  heavenly  strains 
That  filled  the  lonely  dwelling. 

The     Fairy's    frame    was    slight,    yon 

fibrous  cloud, 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  even, 
And  which  the  straining  eye  can  hardly 

seize 
When     melting    into    eastern    twilight's 

shadow, 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight;   but  the 

fair  star 
That  gems  the  glittering  coronet  of  morn, 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful, 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's 

form, 
Spread  a  purpureal  halo  round  the  scene, 
Yet  with  an  undulating  motion, 
Swayed  to  her  outline  gracefully. 

From  her  celestial  car 
The  Fairy  Queen  descended, 
And  thrice  she  waved  her  wand 
Circled  with  wreaths  of  amaranth: 
Her  thin  and  misty  form 


QUEEN  MAB. 


29 


Moved  with  the  moving  air, 
And  the  clear  silver  tones, 
As  thus  she  spoke,  were  such 
As  are  unheard  by  all  but  gifted  ear. 


Stars  !  your  balmiest  influence  shed  ! 
Elements  !  your  wrath  suspend  ! 
Sleep,  Ocean,  in  the  rocky  bounds 
That  circle  thy  domain  ! 
Let  not  a  breath  be  seen  to  stir 
Around  yon  grass-grown  ruin's  height, 
Let  even  the  restless  gossamer 
Sleep  on  the  moveless  air  ! 
Soul  of  Ianthe  !  thou, 
Judged  alone  worthy  of  the  envied  boon, 
That  waits  the  good  and  the  sincere;  that 

waits 
Those    who    have    struggled,    and    with 

resolute  will 
Vanquished  earth's  pride  and  meanness, 

burst  the  chains, 
The  icy  chains  of  custom,  and  have  shone 
The   day-stars    of   their    age; — Soul    of 
Ianthe  ! 

Awake  !  arise  ! 

Sudden  arose 
Ianthe's  Soul;  it  stood 
All  beautiful  in  naked  purity, 
The  perfect  semblance  of  its  bodily  frame. 
Instinct    with    inexpressible    beauty   and 
grace, 
Each  stain  of  earthliness 
Had  passed  away,  it  reassumed 
Its  native  dignity,  and  stood 
Immortal  amid  ruin. 

Upon  the  couch  the  body  lay 
Wrapt  in  the  depth  of  slumber: 
Its  features  were  fixed  and  meaningless, 

Yet  animal  life  was  there, 
And  every  organ  yet  performed 
Its  natural  functions:  't  was  a  sight 
Of  wonder  to  behold  the  body  and  soul. 
The  self-same  lineaments,  the  same 
Marks  of  identity  were  there : 
Yet,  oh,  how  different !     One  aspires  to 

Heaven, 
Pants  for  its  sempiternal  heritage, 
And  ever-changing,  ever-rising  still, 
Wantons  in  endless  being. 


The  other,  for  a  time  the  unwilling  sport 
Of  circumstance  and  passion,  struggles  on ; 
Fleets  through  its  sad  duration  rapidly: 
Then  like  an  useless  and  worn-out  ma- 
chine, 
Rots,  perishes,  and  passes. 


Spirit !  who  hast  dived  so  deep; 
Spirit !  who  hast  soared  so  high-; 
Thou  the  fearless,  thou  the  mild, 
Accept  the  boon  thy  worth  hath  earned, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me. 


Do  I  dream?     Is  this  new  feeling 

But  a  visioned  ghost  of  slumber? 

If  indeed  I  am  a  soul, 

A  free,  a  disembodied  soul, 

Speak  again  to  me. 


I  am  the  Fairy  Mab;  to  me  't  is  given 

The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep  : 
J   The  secrets  of   the  immeasurable  past, 

In  the  unfailing  consciences  of  men, 
!   Those    stern,   unflattering    chroniclers,   I 
find: 

The  future,  from  the  causes  which  arise 

In  each  event,  I  gather:  not  the  sting 
j    Which  retributive  memory  implants 

In  the  hard  bosom  of  the  selfish  man; 

Nor  that  ecstatic  and  exulting  throb 

Which  virtue's  votary  feels  when  he  sums 
up 

The  thoughts  and  actions  of  a  well-spent 
day 

Are  unforeseen,  unregistered  by  me: 
I   And  it  is  yet  permitted  me,  to  rend 
i  The  veil  of  mortal  frailty,  that  the  spirit 
i   Clothed  in  its  changeless  purity,  may  know 
I    How  soonest  to  accomplish  the  great  end 

For  which  it  hath  its  being,  and  may  taste 
I  That  peace,  which  in  the  end  all  life  will 
share. 

This  is  the  meed  of  virtue;  happy  Soul, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me  ! 

The  chains  of  earth's  immurement 
Fell  from  Ianthe's  spirit; 


30 


QUEEN  MAB. 


They  shrank  and  brake  like  bandages  of 
straw 
Beneath  a  wakened  giant's  strength. 

She  knew  her  glorious  change, 
And  felt  in  apprehension  uncontrolled 

New  raptures  opening  round: 
Each  day-dream  of  her  mortal  life, 
Each  frenzied  vision  of  the  slumbers 
That  closed  each  well-spent  day, 
Seemed  now  to  meet  reality. 
The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded; 
The  silver  clouds  disparted; 
And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended, 
Again  the  speechless  music  swelled, 
Again  the  coursers  of  the  air 
Unfurled   their  azure  pennons,   and    the 
Queen 
Shaking  the  beamy  reins 
Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
The  night  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault,  — 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave 
Peeped  the  fust  faint  smile  of  morn :  — 
The  magic  car  moved  on  — 
From  the  celestial  hoofs 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew, 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied    above    the     mountain's     loftiest 
peak, 
Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 
The  utmost  verge  of  earth, 
The  rival   of    the    Andes,   whose  dark 
brow 
Lowered  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 
Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 
Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 
The  mirror  of   its  stillness  showed 
The  pale  and  waning  stars, 
The  chariot's  fiery  track, 
And  the  gray  light  of  morn 
Tingeing  those  fleecy  clouds 
That  canopied  the  dawn. 
Seemed  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 
Lay  through  the  midst  of    an    immense 

concave, 
Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 
With  shades  of  infinite  color, 


And  semicircled  with  a  belt 
Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
As  they  approached  their  goal 
The  coursers  seemed  to  gather  speed; 
The   sea    no    longer  was    distinguished; 
earth 
Appeared  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere; 
The  sun's  unclouded  orb 
Rolled    through    the    black     con- 
cave ; 
Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted     around     the     chariot's     swifter 
course, 
And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 
Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 
Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appeared 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the 
heaven; 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled, 
And  countless  spheres  diffused 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder :  some 
Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea: 
Some    dashed   athwart  with    trains  of 

flame, 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and,  as  the  chariot 
past, 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  here  ! 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 
Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 
Yet  not  the  lightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 
Is  less  instinct  with  thee: 
Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 
That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the 
dead 
Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou  ! 
Imperishable  as  this  scene, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


3' 


The  magic  car  no  longer  moved. 

II. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 

Entered  the  Hall  of  Spells: 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 

Those  golden  clouds 

To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 

That  rolled  in  glittering  billows 

And  thou  hast  lingered  there, 

Beneath  the  azure  canopy 

Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 

With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not : 

Seemed     resting     on     the     burnished 

The  light  and  crimson  mists, 

wave, 

Floating  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  lines 

Through  that  unearthly  dwelling, 

Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 

Yielded  to  every  movement  of  the  will. 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere: 

Upon    their    passive    swell    the    Spirit 

Thou  must   have   marked   the   billowy 

leaned, 

clouds 

And,    for  the  varied  bliss  that  pressed 

Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy 

around, 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 

Used  not  the  glorious  privilege 

Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath. 

Of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 

And  yet  there  is  a  moment, 

When  the  sun's  highest  point 

Spirit !  the  Fairy  said, 

Peeps  like   a   star   o'er  ocean's  western 

And  pointed  to  the  gorgeous  dome, 

edge, 

This  is  a  wondrous  sight 

When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold, 

And  mocks  all  human  grandeur; 

Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 

But,  were  it  virtue's  only  meed  to  dwell 

Like  islands  on  a  dark  blue  sea; 

In  a  celestial  palace,  all  resigned 

Then   has   thy    fancy   soared   above    the 

To  pleasurable  impulses,  immured 

earth, 

Within  the  prison  of  itself,  the  will 

And  furled  its  wearied  wing 

Of    changeless   nature  would    be    unful- 

Within the  Fairy's  fane. 

filled. 

Learn   to    make    others    happy.     Spirit, 

come  ! 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 

This    is    thine    high    reward: — the  past 

Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 

shall  rise; 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 

Thou  shalt  behold    the    present;  I    will 

Stretching    o'er    the    sun's    bright 

teach 

couch, 

The  secrets  of  the  future. 

Nor  the  burnished  ocean  waves 

Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 

So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 

Approached    the     overhanging     battle- 

As Mab's  ethereal  palace  could  afford. 

ment. — 

Yet    likest    evening's    vault,    that    faery 

Below  lay  stretched  the  universe  ! 

Hall ! 

There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 

As  Heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it 

That  bounds  imagination's  flight, 

spread 

Countless  and  unending  orbs 

Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 

In  mazy  motion  intermingled, 

Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 

Yet  still  fulfilled  immutably 

Its  fertile  golden  islands 

Eternal  nature's  law. 

Floating  on  a  silver  sea; 

Above,  below,  around 

Whilst    suns    their    mingling    beamings 

The  circling  systems  formed 

darted 

A  wilderness  of  harmony; 

Through  clouds  of  circumambient  dark- 

Each with  undeviating  aim, 

ness, 

In  eloquent  silence,  through  the  depths 

And  pearly  battlements  around 

of  space 

Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  Heaven. 

Pursued  its  wondrous  way. 

3? 


QUEEN  MAB. 


There  was  a  little  light 
That  twinkled  in  the  misty  distance : 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye 

Might  ken  that  rolling  orb; 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye, 

And  in  no  other  place 
But  that  celestial  dwelling,  might  behold 
Each  action  of  this  earth's  inhabitants. 

But  matter,  space  and  time 
In  those  aerial  mansions  cease  to  act; 
And  all-prevailing  wisdom,  when  it  reaps 
The  harvest  of  its  excellence,  o'erbounds 
Those  obstacles,  of  which  an  earthly  soul 
Fears  to  attempt  the  conquest. 

The  Fairy  pointed  to  the  earth. 
The  Spirit's  intellectual  eye 
Its  kindred  beings  recognized. 
The  thronging  thousands,  to   a  passing 
view, 
Seemed  like  an  anthill's  citizens. 
How  wonderful  !  that  even 
The  passions,  prejudices,  interests, 
That  sway  the   meanest   being,  the  weak 
touch 
That  moves  the  finest  nerve, 
And  in  one  human  brain 
Causes  the   faintest  thought,   becomes  a 
link 
In  the  great  chain  of  nature. 

Behold,  the  Fairy  cried, 
Palmyra's  ruined  palaces  !  — 

Behold  \  where  grandeur  frowned; 

Behold  !  where  pleasure  smiled; 
What  now  remains? — the  memory 

Of  senselessness  and  shame  — 

What  is  immortal  there? 

Nothing  —  it  stands  to  tell 

A  melancholy  tale,  to  give 

An  awful  warning:    soon 
Oblivion  will  steal  silently 

The  remnant  of  its  fame. 

Monarchs  and  conquerors  there 
Proud  o'er  prostrate  millions  trod  — 
The  earthquakes  of  the  human  race; 
Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  ruin 

That  marks  their  shock  is  past. 

Beside  the  eternal  Nile, 
The  Pyramids  have  risen. 
Nile  shall  pursue  his  changeless  way: 
Those  pyramids  shall  fall; 


Yea !   not  a  stone  shall  stand  to  tell 
The  spot  whereon  they  stood  ! 

Their  very  site  shall  be  forgotten, 
As  is  their  builder's  name  ! 

Behold  yon  sterile  spot; 
Where  now  the  wandering  Arab's  tent 

Flaps  in  the  desert-blast. 
There  once  old  Salem's  haughty  fane 
Reared    high    to     heaven     its     thousand 
golden  domes, 
And  in  the  blushing  face  of  day 
Exposed  its  shameful  glory. 
Oh !    many  a  widow,    many  an    orphan 

cursed 
The  building  of  that   fane;    and  many  a 

father, 
Worn  out  with  toil  and  slavery,  implored 
The   poor  man's  God   to   sweep  it   from 

the  earth, 
And  spare  his  children  the  detested  task 
Of  piling  stone  on  stone,  and  poisoning 
The  choicest  days  of  life, 
To  soothe  a  dotard's  vanity. 
There  an  inhuman  and  uncultured  race 
Howled  hideous  praises  to  their  Demon- 
God; 
They    rushed    to    war,     tore    from    the 

mother's  womb 
The  unborn  child,  —  old  age  and  infancy 
Promiscuous    perished;    their    victorious 

arms 
Left  not  a  soul  to  breathe.     Oh  !  they 

were  fiends : 
But  what  was  he  who  taught  them  that 

the  God 
Of  nature  and  benevolence  hath  given 
A    special     sanction     to     the     trade     of 

blood? 
His  name  and  theirs  are  fading,  and  the 

tales 
Of  this  barbarian  nation,  which  impos- 
ture 
Recites  till  terror  credits,  are  pursuing 
Itself  into  forgctfulness. 
Where    Athens,    Rome,     and    Sparta 

stood, 
There  is  a  moral  desert  now : 
The  mean  and  miserable  huts, 
The  yet  more  wretched  palaces, 
Contrasted  with  those  ancient  fanes, 
Now  crumbling  to  oblivion; 
The  long  and  lonely  colonnades, 


x^UEEN  MAB. 


33 


Through  which  the  ghost  of  Freedom 

There's  not  one  atom  of  yon  earth 

stalks, 

But  once  was  living  man; 

Seem  like  a  well-known  tune, 

Nor  the  minutest  drop  of  rain, 

Which,    in    some    dear   scene    we    have 

That  hangeth  in  its  thinnest  cloud, 

loved  to  hear, 

But  flowed  in  human  veins: 

Remembered  now  in  sadness. 

And  from  the  burning  plains 

But,  oh  !  how  much  more  changed, 

Where  Libyan  monsters  yell, 

How  gloomier  is  the  contrast 

From  the  most  gloomy  glens 

Of  human  nature  there  ! 

Of  Greenland's  sunless  clime, 

Where  Socrates  expired,  a  tyrant's  slave, 

To  where  the  golden  fields 

A    coward    and    a    fool,  spreads    death 

Of  fertile  England  spread 

around  — 

Their  harvest  to  the  day, 

Then,  shuddering,  meets  his  own. 

Thou  canst  not  find  one  spot 

Where  Cicero  and  Antoninus  lived, 

Whereon  no  city  stood. 

A  cowled  and  hypocritical  monk 

Prays,,  curses  and  deceives. 

How  strange  is  human  pride ! 

I  tell  thee  that  those  living  things, 

Spirit !  ten  thousand  years 

To  whom  the  fragile  blade  of  grass, 

Have  scarcely  passed  away, 

That  springeth  in  the  morn 

Since,    in    the    waste    where    now    the 

And  perisheth  ere  noon, 

savage  drinks 

Is  an  unbounded  world; 

His  enemy's  blood,  and  aping  Europe's 

I  tell  thee  that  those  viewless  beings, 

sons, 

Whose  mansion  is  the  smallest  particle 

Wakes  the  unholy  song  of  war, 

Of  the  impassive  atmosphere, 

Arose  a  stately  city, 

Think,  feel  and  live  like  man; 

Metropolis  of  the  western  continent : 

That  their  affections  and  antipathies, 

There,  now,  the  mossy  column-stone, 

Like  his,  produce  the  laws 

Indented  by  time's  unrelaxing  grasp, 

Ruling  their  moral  state;- 

Which  once  appeared  to  brave 

And  the  minutest  throb 

All,  save  its  country's  ruin; 

That  through  their  frame  diffuses 

There  the  wide  forest  scene, 

The  slightest,  faintest  motion, 

Rude  in  the  uncultivated  loveliness 

Is  fixed  and  indispensable 

Of  gardens  long  run  wild, 

As  the  majestic  laws 

Seems,  to  the  unwilling  sojourner,  whose 

That  rule  yon  rolling  orbs. 

steps 

Chance  in  that  desert  has  delayed, 

Thus  to  have  stood  since  earth  was  what 

The  Fairy  paused.     The  Spirit, 

it  is. 

In  ecstasy  of  admiration,  felt 

Yet  once  it  was  the  busiest  haunt, 

All  knowledge  of  the  past  revived;   the 

Whither,  as  to  a  common  centre,  flocked 

events 

Strangers,    and    ships,    and    merchan- 

Of old  and  wondrous  times, 

dise: 

Which  dim  tradition  interruptedly 

Once  peace  and  freedom  blest 

Teaches  the  credulous  vulgar,  were  un- 

The cultivated  plain : 

folded 

But  wealth,  that  curse  of  man, 

In  just  perspective  to  the  view; 

Blighted  the  bud  of  its  prosperity: 

Yet  dim  from  their  infinitude. 

Virtue  and  wisdom,  truth  and  liberty, 

The  Spirit  seemed  to  stand 

Fled,    to    return    not,    until    man     shall 

High  on  an  isolated  pinnacle; 

know 

The  flood  of  ages  combating  below, 

That  they  alone  can  give  the  bliss 

The  depth  of  the  unbounded  universe 

Worthy  a  soul  that  claims 

Above,  and  all  around 

Its  kindred  with  eternity. 

Nature's  unchanging  harmony. 

34 


QUEEN  MAB. 


III. 

Fairy  !  the  Spirit  said, 
And  on  the  Queen  of  spells 
Fixed  her  ethereal  eyes, 
I  thank  thee.     Thou  hast  given 
A    boon  which    I   will    not    resign,   and 

taught 
A  lesson  not  to  be  unlearned.     I  know 
The    past,  and    thence    I   will    essay   to 

glean 
A  warning  for  the  future,  so  that  man 
May  profit  by  his  errors,  and  derive 
Experience  from  his  folly : 
For,  when  the  power  of  imparting  joy 
Is  equal  to  the  will,  the  human  soul 
Requires  no  other  heaven. 


Turn  thee,  surpassing  Spirit ! 
Much  yet  remains  unscanned. 
Thou     knowest    how     great    is 

man, 
Thou  knowest  his  imbecility  : 
Yet  learn  thou  what  he  is; 
Yet  learn  the  lofty  destiny 
Which  restless  time  prepares 
For  every  living  soul. 

Behold  a  gorgeous  palace,  that,  amid 
Yon  populous    city,    rears    its  thousand 

towers 
And  seems  itself  a  city.      Gloomy  troops 
Of  sentinels,  in  stern  and  silent  ranks, 
Encompass  it  around  ;    the  dweller  there 
Cannot  be  free  and  happy  ;    hearest  thou 

not 
The  curses  of  the  fatherless,  the  groans 
Of    those     who   have   no    friend?       lie 

passes  on : 
The  King,  the  wearer  of  a  gilded  chain 
That  binds  his  soul  to  abjectness,  the  fool 
Whom     courtiers     nickname     monarch, 

whilst  a  slave 
Even  to  the  basest  appetites  —  that  man 
Heeds    not    the    shriek    of  penury  ;     he 

smiles 
At  the  deep  curses  which  the  destitute 
Mutter  in  secret,  and  a  sullen  joy 
Pervades  his  bloodless  heart  when  thou- 
sands groan 


But  for  those  morsels  which  his  wanton- 
ness 
Wastes  in  unjoyous  revelry,  to  save 
All  that  they  love  from  famine  :   when  he 

hears 
The  tale  of  horror,  to  some  ready-made 

face 
Of  hypocritical  assent  he  turns, 
Smothering     the    glow    of  shame,    that, 

spite  of  him, 
Flushes  his  bloated  cheek. 

Now  to  the  meal 
Of  silence,  grandeur,  and  excess,  he  drags 
His  palled  unwilling  appetite.  If  gold, 
Gleaming  around,  and   numerous   viands 

culled 
From  every  clime,  could  force  the  loath- 
ing sense 
To  overcome  satiety,  —  if   wealth 
The  spring  it  draws  from  poisons  not, — 

or  vice, 
Unfeeling,  stubborn  vice,  converteth  not 
Its  food  to   deadliest  venom  ;    then   that 

king 
Is  happy  ;    and  the  peasant  who  fulfils 
His  unforced  task,   when  he   returns  at 

even 
And  by  the  blazing  fagot  meets  again 
Her    welcome    for    whom    all  his   toil  is 

sped, 
Tastes  not  a  sweeter  meal. 

Behold  him  now 
Stretched   on   the  gorgeous   couch  ;     his 

fevered  brain 
Reels  dizzily  awhile  ;    but  ah  !   too  soon 
The  slumber  of  intemperance  subsides, 
And   conscience,   that    undying    serpent, 

calls 
Her  venomous  brood  to   their  nocturnal 

task. 
Listen  !   he  speaks  !   oh  !   mark  that  fren- 
zied eye  — 
Oh  !  mark  that  deadly  visage. 

KING. 

No  cessation  ! 
Oh  !  must  this  last  forever  !  Awful  death, 
I   wish,   yet   fear   to    clasp    thee  ! — -Not 

one  moment 
Of  dreamless  sleep  !   O  dear  and  blessed 

peace ! 
Why  dost  thou  shroud  thy  vestal  purity 


QUEEN  MAB. 


35 


In    penury  and    dungeons  ?      wherefore 

lurkest 
With   danger,  death,    and  solitude  ;   yet 

shun'st 
The  palace  I  have   built  thee  ?     Sacred 

peace  ! 
Oh  visit  me  but  once,  but  pitying  shed 
One   drop   of    balm  upon    my    withered 

soul. 

Vain  man !    that  palace  is  the  virtuous 

heart, 
And  peace  defileth  not  her  snowy  robes 
In  such  a  shed  as  thine.     Hark  !  yet  he 

mutters  ; 
His  slumbers  are  but  varied  agonies, 
They  prey  like  scorpions  on   the  springs 

of  life. 
There  needeth  not  the  hell   that  bigots 

frame 
To  punish  those  who  err  ;    earth  in  itself 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure  ; 
And  all-sufficing  nature  can  chastise 
Those  who  trangress  her  law,  — she  only 

knows 
How  justly  to  proportion  to  the  fault 
The  punishment  it  merits. 

Is  it  strange 
That  this  poor  wretch  should  pride  him 

in  his  woe  ? 
Take  pleasure  in  his  abjectness,  and  hug 
The  scorpion  that  consumes   him  ?      Is 

it  strange 
That,  placed  on  a  conspicuous  throne  of 

thorns, 
Grasping  an  iron  sceptre,  and  immured 
Within  a   splendid  prison,   whose  stern 

bounds 
Shut  him  from  all  that's  good  or  dear  on 

earth, 
His  soul  asserts  not  its  humanity  ? 
That  man's  mild  nature  rises  not  in  war 
Against  a   king's    employ?     No  —  't  is 

not  strange. 
He,   like  the  vulgar,   thinks,   feels,   acts 

and  lives 
Just  as  his  father  did  ;    the  unconquered 

powers 
Of  precedent  and  custom  interpose 
Between   a  king  and  virtue.       Stranger 

yet, 
To   those    who   know    not    nature,    nor 

deduce 


The  future  from  the  present,  it  may  seem, 
That  not  one   slave,    who    suffers    from 

the  crimes 
Of  this  unnatural  being  ;  not  one  wretch, 
Whose  children  famish,  and  whose  nup- 
tial bed 
Is  earth's  unpitying  bosom,  rears  an  arm 
To  dash  him  from  his  throne  ! 

Those  gilded  flies 
That,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  court, 
Fatten    on    its    corruption!  —  what    are 

they  ? 
—  The   drones  of  the  community  ;   they 

feed 
On  the  mechanic's   labor  :    the  starved 

hind 
For  them  compels  the  stubborn  glebe  to 

yield 
Its  unshared  harvests  ;    and  yon  squalid 

form, 
Leaner  than  fleshless  misery,  that  wastes 
A  sunless  life  in  the  unwholesome  mine, 
Drags  out  in  labor  a  protracted  death, 
To  glut  their  grandeur  ;  many  faint  with 

toil, 
That  few  may  know  the  cares   and  woe 

of  sloth. 

WThence  think'st  thou,  kings   and   para- 
sites arose  ? 
Whence   that   unnatural   line   of    drones 

who  heap 
Toil  and  unvanquishable  penury 
On   those  who  build  their  palaces,   and 

bring 
Their  daily    bread  ?  —  From  vice,  black 

loathsome  vice  ; 
From   rapine,    madness,    treachery,   and 

wrong  ; 
From  all  that  genders  misery,  and  makes 
Of  earth  this    thorny    wilderness;    from 

lust, 
Revenge,  and  murder.    .  .    .    And  when 

reason's  voice, 
Loud  as  the  voice  of  nature,  shall  have 

waked 
The  nations  ;   and  mankind  perceive  that 

vice 
Is  discord,  war,  and  misery  ;    that  virtue 
Is  peace,  and  happiness  and  harmony  ; 
WThen  man's  maturer  nature  shall  disdain 
The  playthings  of  its  childhood  ; —  kingly 

glare 


36 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Will    lose   its  power   to  dazzle  ;    its  au- 
thority 
Will    silently    pass    by ;     the   gorgeous 

throne 
Shall  stand  unnoticed  in  the  regal  hall, 
Fast  falling  to  decay;    whilst  falsehood's 

trade 
Shall  be  as  hateful  and  unprofitable 
As  that  of  truth  is  now. 

Where  is  the  fame 
Which    the    vainglorious   mighty  of   the 

earth 
Seek  to  eternize?  Oh!  the  faintest  sound 
From  time's  light   footfall,  the  minutest 

wave 
That  swells  the  flood  of  ages,  whelms  in 

nothing 
The   unsubstantial   bubble.     Ay !   to-day 
Stern   is   the   tyrant's   mandate,  red   the 

gaze 
That  flashes  desolation,  strong  the  arm 
That    scatters    multitudes.       To-morrow 

comes  ! 
That  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  that  died 
In  ages  past;    that  gaze,  a  transient  flash 
On  which  the  midnight  closed,  and  on 

that  arm 
The  worm  has  made  his  meal. 

The  virtuous  man, 
Who,  great  in  his  humility,  as  kings 
Are  little  in  their  grandeur;  he  who  leads 
Invincibly  a  life  of  resolute  good, 
And    stands    amid    the    silent    dungeon- 
depths 
More  free  and  fearless    than    the  trem- 
bling judge, 
Who,    clothed    in    venal    power,    vainly 

strove 
To  bind  the  impassive  spirit;    when  he 

falls, 
His    mild    eye    beams    benevolence    no 

more : 
Withered  the  hand  outstretched   but  to 

relieve; 
Sunk    reason's    simple    eloquence,    that 

rolled 
But  to  appal  the  guilty.     Yes  !  the  grave 
Hath    quenched    that    eye,    and    death's 

relentless  frost 
Withered    that    arm:    but    the    unfading 

fame 
Which    virtue   hangs   upon    its    votary's 

tomb; 


The    deathless    memory    of    that    man, 

whom  kings 
Call    to    their    mind    and    tremble;    the 

remembrance 
With  which  the  happy  spirit  contemplates 
Its  well-spent  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Shall  never  pass  away. 

Nature  rejects  the  monarch,  not  the  man; 

The  subject,  not  the  citizen:   for  kings 

And  subjects,  mutual  foes,  forever  play 

A  losing  game  into  each  other's  hands, 

Whose  stakes  are  vice  and  misery.     The 
man 

Of    virtuous    soul    commands    not,    nor 
obeys. 

Power,  like  a  desolating  pestilence, 

Pollutes  whate'er  it  touches;    and  obe- 
dience, 

Bane    of    all    genius,    virtue,    freedom, 
truth, 

Makes  slaves  of  men,  and,  of  the  human 
frame, 

A  mechanized  automaton. 

When  Nero, 

High   over   flaming    Rome,  with  savage 
joy 

Lowered   like  a    fiend,    drank  with    en- 
raptured ear 

The  shrieks  of  agonizing  death,  beheld 

The  frightful  desolation  spread,  and  felt 

A  new  created  sense  within  his  soul 

Thrill   to   the   sight,    and  vibrate   to  the 
sound ; 

Think'st  thou  his  grandeur  had  not  over- 
come 

The  force  of  human  kindness?  and,  when 
Rome, 

With    one    stern    blow,   hurled   not    the 
tyrant  down, 

Crushed  not  the  arm  red  with  her  dearest 
blood, 

Had  not  submissive  abjectness  destroyed 

Nature's  suggestions? 

Look  on  yonder  earth  : 

The  golden  harvests  spring;    the  unfail- 
ing sun 

Sheds    light    and    life;     the     fruits,    the 
flowers,  the  trees, 

Arise  in  due  succession:    all  things  speak 

Peace,    harmony,   and    love.     The     uni- 
verse, 

In  nature's  silent  eloquence,  declares 


QUEEN  MAB. 


37 


That  all  fulfil  the  works  of  love  and  joy  — 
All  but  the  outcast  man.  He  fabricates 
The   sword    which  stabs  his   peace;    he 

cherisheth 
The    snakes    that    gnaw    his    heart;     he 

raiseth  up 
The  tyrant,  whose  delight  is  in  his  woe, 
Whose  sport  is  in  his  agony.     Yon  sun, 
Lights  it  the  great    alone?     Von   silver 

beams, 
Sleep  they  less  sweetly  on  the    cottage 

thatch 
Than  on  the  dome  of  kings?     Is  mother 

earth 
A  step-dame  to  her  numerous  sons,  who 

earn 
Her  unshared  gifts  with  unremitting  toil; 
A  mother  only  to  those  puling  babes 
Who,  nursed  in  ease  and  luxury,  make 

men 
The  playthings  of  their  babyhood,  and 

mar, 
In  self-important  childishness,  that  peace 
Which  men  alone  appreciate? 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  no. 
The  pure  diffusion  of  thy  essence  throbs 
Alike  in  every  human  heart. 

Thou  aye  erectest  there 
Thy  throne  of  power  unappealable: 
Thou  art  the  judge  beneath  whose  nod 
Man's  brief  and  frail  authority 

Is  powerless  as  the  wind 

That  passeth  idly  by. 
Thine  the  tribunal  which  surpasseth 
The  show  of  human  justice, 

As  God  surpasses  man. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou 
Life  of  interminable  multitudes; 
Soul  of  those  mighty  spheres 
Whose  changeless  paths  thro'  Heaven's 
deep  silence  lie; 
Soul  of  that  smallest  being, 

The  dwelling  of  whose  life 
Is  one  faint  April  sun -gleam;  — 
Man,  like  these  passive  things, 
Thy  will  unconsciously  fulfilleth: 

Like  theirs,  his  age  of  endless  peace, 
Which  time  is  fast  maturing, 
Will  swiftly,  surely  come; 
A.nd  the  unbounded    frame,  which  thou 
pervadest, 


Will  be  without  a  flaw 
Marring  its  perfect  symmetry. 

IV. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest 
sigh, 

Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  even- 
ing's ear, 

Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 

That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.  Heaven's 
ebon  vault, 

Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 

Through   which    the    moon's    unclouded 
grandeur  rolls, 

Seems    like    a   canopy   which    love    had 
spread 

To    curtain    her    sleeping   world.      Yon 
gentle  hills, 

Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow; 

Von     darksome     rocks,     whence     icicles 
depend, 

So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glitter- 
ing spires 

Tinge  not  the   moon's  pure  beam;   yon 
castled  steep, 

Whose    banner   hangeth   o'er   the    time- 
worn  tower 

So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 

A  metaphor  of  peace;  —  all  form  a  scene 

Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 

Her    soul  above    this  sphere   of  earthli- 
ness; 

Where  silence  undisturbed  might  watch 
alone, 

So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

The  orb  of  day, 

In  southern  climes,  o'er  ocean's  waveless 
field 

Sinks  sweetly  smiling:   not  the  faintest 
breath 

Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep;  the  clouds 
of  eve 

Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of 
day; 

And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 

Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes: 

Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepen- 
ing mass, 

Roll   o'er    the   blackened    waters;     the 
deep  roar 

Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully; 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Tempest    unfolds    its    pinion    o'er    the 

gloom 
That    shrouds    the    boiling    surge;     the 

pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks 

his  prey; 
The  torn  deep  yawns,  —  the  vessel  finds 

a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulph. 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 
That  fires  the    arch    of    heaven?  —  that 

dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon?     The  stars  are 

quenched 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling 

snow 
Gleams  faintly  through   the  gloom  that 

gathers  round  ! 
Hark    to    that     roar,    whose    swift    and 

deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  moun- 
tains ring, 
Startling    pale    midnight    on    her    starry 

throne ! 
Now   swells  the  intermingling  din;   the 

jar 
Frequent  and  frightful   of  the    bursting 

bomb; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan, 

the  shout, 
The   ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of 

men 
Inebriate  with   rage: — loud,   and  more 

loud 
The  discord  grows;    till  pale  death  shuts 

the  scene, 
And    o'er    the   conqueror   and   the   con- 
quered draws 
His    cold    and   bloody  shroud. — Of   all 

the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  bloom- 
ing there, 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health;    of  all  the 

hearts 
That  beat   with    anxious    life    at    sunset 

there; 
How  few  survive,  how  few   are  beating 

now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous 

pause; 
Save  when  the   frantic  wail  of  widowed 

love 


Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the 

faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul   bursts  from  the 

frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  morr. 
Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene;    the  sul 

phurous  smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning 

dance 
Along    the     spangling     snow.        There. 

tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered 

arms, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  linea- 
ments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the 

dreadful  path 
Of  the  outsallying  victors:   far  behind, 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city 

stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen  — 
Each    tree    which    guards    its    darkness 

from  the  day 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

I  see  thee  shrink, 
Surpassing    Spirit! — wert    thou    human 

else? 
I  see  a  shade  of  doubt  and  horror  fleet 
Across  thy  stainless  features :  yet  fear  not; 
This  is  no  unconnected  misery, 
Nor  stands  uncaused,  and  irretrievable. 
Man's  evil  nature,  that  apology 
Which  kings  who  rule,  and  cowards  who 

crouch,  set  up 
For  their  unnumbered  crimes,  sheds  not 

the  blood 
Which  desolates  the  discord-wasted  land. 
From  kings,  and  priests,  and  statesmen, 

war  arose, 
Whose  safety  is  man's  deep  unbettered 

woe, 
Whose    grandeur   his  debasement.      Let 

the  axe 
Strike  at  the   root,  the  poison-tree  will 

fall; 
And     where     its    venomed    exhalations 

spread 
Ruin,   and  death,   and  woe,  where  mil- 
lions lay 
Quenching    the    serpent's    famine,    and 

their  bones 


QUEEN  MAB. 


39 


Bleaching  unburied  in  the  putrid  blast, 
A  garden  shall  arise,  in  loveliness 
Surpassing  fabled  Eden. 

Hath  Nature's  soul, 
That    formed    this    world    so    beautiful, 

that  spread 
Earth's  lap  with  plenty,  and  life's  small- 
est chord 
Strung  to  unchanging  unison,  that  gave 
The  happy  birds   their  dwelling   in   the 

grove, 
That  yielded  to  the  wanderers  of  the  deep 
The    lovely    silence    of    the   unfathomed 

main, 
And  filled  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls 

in  dust 
With  spirit,  thought,  and  love;    on  Man 

alone, 
Partial  in  causeless  malice,  wantonly 
Heaped  ruin,  vice,  and  slavery;    his  soul 
Blasted    with    withering   curses;    placed 

afar 
The    meteor-happiness,    that    shuns    his 

grasp, 
But    serving    on    the   frightful   gulph   to 

glare, 
Rent  wide  beneath  his  footsteps? 

Nature  !  —  no  ! 
Kings,  priests,   and  statesmen,  blast  the 

human  flower 
Even  in   its  tender  bud;    their  influence  j 

darts 
Like  subtle  poison  through  the  bloodless  f 

veins 
Of  desolate  society.      The  child, 
Ere  he  can  lisp  his  mother's  sacred  name, 
Swells  with  the  unnatural  pride  of  crime, 

and  lifts 
His  baby-sword  even   in  a   hero's  mood. 
This  infant-arm   becomes    the    bloodiest 

scourge 
Of  devastated  earth;       whilst      specious  ' 

names, 
Learnt  in  soft  childhood's  unsuspecting  j 

hour, 
Serve  as  the  sophisms  with  which  man- 
hood dims 
Bright  reason's    ray,    and   sanctifies   the   j 

sword 
Upraised   to  shed   a  brother's    innocent  j 

blood. 
Let    priest-led    slaves    cease  to  proclaim 

that  man 


Inherits  vice  and  misery,  when  force 
And     falsehood     hang     even    o'er    the 

cradled  babe, 
Stifling  with  rudest  grasp  all  natural  good. 

Ah  !   to   the   stranger-soul,  when   first  it 

peeps 
From    its    new    tenement,     and     looks 

abroad 
For  happiness  and  sympathy,  how  stern 
And  desolate  a  tract  is  this  wide  world  ! 
How  withered   all   the  buds  of    natural 

good  ! 
No  shade,  no  shelter  from  the  sweeping 

storms 
Of    pitiless    power !     On    its    wretched 

frame, 
Poisoned,     perchance,     by    the    disease 

and  woe 
Heaped  on  the  wretched  parent  whence 

it  sprung 
By   morals,   law,    and  custom,   the   pure 

winds 
Of    heaven,     that    renovate    the    insect 

tribes 
May  breathe  not.     The  untainting  light 

of  day 
May  visit  not  its  longings.     It  is  bound 
Ere  it  has  life;   yea,  all  the   chains  are 

forged 
Long  ere  its  being:    all  liberty  and  love 
And  peace  is   torn   from  its  defenceless- 

ness; 
Cursed  from  its  birth,  even  from  its  cra- 
dle doomed 
To  abjectness  and  bondage  ! 

Throughout  this  varied  and  eternal  world 
Soul  is  the  only  element:   the  block 
That  for  uncounted  ages  has  remained 
The    moveless     pillar    of     a    mountain's 

weight 
Is  active,  living  spirit.      Every  grain 
Is  sentient  both  in  unity  and  part, 
And  the  minutest  atom  comprehends 
A    world    of    loves    and    hatreds;    these 

beget 
Evil  and  good :   hence   truth   and   false- 
hood spring; 
Hence  will  and  thought  and  action,  all 

the  germs 
Of  pain  or  pleasure,  sympathy  or  hate, 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe. 


40 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Soul  is  not  more  polluted  than  the  beams 
Of  heaven's  pure  orb,   ere   round    their 

rapid  lines 
The  taint  of  earth-born  atmospheres  arise. 

Man   is  of    soul  and    body,  formed    for 

deeds 
Of  high  resolve,  on  fancy's  boldest  wing 
To  soar  unwearied,  fearlessly  to  turn 
The  keenest  pangs  to  peacefulness,  and 

taste 
The  joys  which  mingled  sense  and  spirit 

yield. 
Or  he  is  formed  for  abjectness  and  woe, 
To  grovel  on  the  dunghill  of  his  fears, 
To  shrink  at  every  sound,  to   quench  the 

flame 
Of  natural  love  in  sensualism,  to  know 
That  hour  as  blest  when  on  his  worthless 

days 
The  frozen  hand   of  death   shall   set  its 

seal, 
Yet  fear  the  cure,  though  hating  the  dis- 
ease. 
The  one  is  man  that  shall  hereafter  be; 
The    other,  man  as  vice  has  made  him 

now. 

War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's 

delight, 
The    lawyer's    jest,   the   hired  assassin's   I 

trade, 
And,   to  those   royal    murderers,   whose   I 

mean  thrones 
Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and 

gore, 
The  bread  they  eat,   the   staff  on  which 

they  lean. 
Guards,  garbed  in  blood-red  livery,  sur- 
round 
Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 
That  force  defends,  and  from   a  nation's 

rage 
Secure  the  crown,  which  all   the   curses 

reach 
Thai    famine,    frenzy,    woe   and    penury 

breathe. 
These  are  the  hired  bravos  who  defend 
The  tyrant's  throne  —  the   bullies  of  his 

fear : 
These  are  the  sinks  and  channels  of  worst 

vice, 
The  refuse  of  society,  the  dregs 


Of  all  that  is  most  vile :  their  cold  hearts 

blend 
Deceit    with    sternness,    ignorance    with 

pride, 
All  that  is  mean  and  villanous  with  rage 
Which  hopelessness  of    good,   and   self- 
contempt, 
Alone  might  kindle;    they  are  decked  in 

wealth, 
Honor  and  power,  then  are  sent  abroad 
To  do  their  work.     The   pestilence  that 

stalks 
In  gloomy  triumph  through  some  eastern 

land 
Is    less    destroying.      They    cajole    with 

gold, 
And    promises   of   fame,   the   thoughtless 

youth 
Already  crushed  with  servitude;  he  knows 
His  wretchedness  too  late,  and  cherishes 
Repentance  (or  his  ruin,  when  his  doom 
Is  sealed  in  gold  and  blood  ! 
Those  too  the  tyrant  serve,  who,  skilled 

to  snare 
The  feet  of  justice  in  the  toils  of  law, 
Stand,  ready  to  opprcss-the  weaker  still; 
And  right  or  wrong  will  vindicate  for  gold, 
Sneering  at  public  virtue,  which  beneath 
Their  pitiless  tread  lies  torn  and  trampled, 

where 
Honor  sits  smiling  at  the  sale  of  truth. 

Then  grave  and  hoary-headed  hypocrites, 
Without  a  hope,  a  passion,  01  a  love, 
Who,  through  a  life  of  luxury  and  lies, 
Have    crept  by  flattery    to  the  seats    of 

power, 
Support  the  system  whence   their  honors 

flow.    .    .    . 
They  have  three  words :  —  well   tyrants 

know  their  use, 
Well  pay  them  for  the  loan,  with  usury 
Torn    from    a    bleeding    world! — God, 

Hell,  and  Heaven. 
Avengeful,  pitiless,  and  almighty  fiend, 
Whose  mercy  is  a  nickname  for  the  rage 
Of  tameless  tigers  hungering  for  blood. 
Hell,  a  red  gulph  of  everlasting  fire, 
Where    poisonous    and    undying    worms 

prolong 
Eternal  misery  to  those  hapless  slaves 
Whose    life   has    been   a  penance  for   its 

ei  imes. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


4i 


And  Heaven,  a  meed  for  those  who  dare 

belie 
Their  human  nature,  quake,  believe,  and 

cringe 
Before  the  mockeries  of  earthly  power. 

These    tools  the    tyrant   tempers    to    his 

work, 
Wields  in    his    wrath,    and   as    he  wills 

destroys, 
Omnipotent  in  wickedness:   the  while 
Youth  springs,   age  moulders,  manhood 

tamely  does 
His  bidding,   bribed  by   short-lived  joys 

to  lend 
Force  to  the  weakness  of  his  trembling 

arm. 

They   rise,     they    fall;     one    generation 

comes 
Yielding     its     harvest    to    destruction's 

scythe. 
It  fades,  another  blossoms :   yet  behold  ! 
Red  glows   the  tyrant's  stamp-mark    on 

its  bloom, 
Withering  and  cankering  deep  its  passive 

prime. 
He  has  invented  lying  words  and  modes, 
Empty    and    vain    as    his    own    coreless 

heart; 
Evasive    meanings,    nothings    of    much 

sound, 
To  lure  the  heedless  victim  to  the  toils 
Spread  round  the  valley  of  its  paradise. 

Look    to    thyself,   priest,    conqueror,    or 

prince  ! 
Whether  thy  trade  is  falsehood,  and  thy 

lusts 
Deep  wallow  in  the  earnings  of  the  poor, 
With  whom  thy  master    was :  —  or  thou 

delight'st 
In  numbering   o'er   the   myriads  of  thy 

slain, 
All  misery  weighing  nothing  in  the  scale 
Against  thy  short-lived    fame;    or    thou 

dost  load 
With  cowardice  and  crime  the  groaning 

land, 
A  pomp-fed  king.    Look  to  thy  wretched 

self ! 
Ay,  art   thou  not  the  veriest  slave  that 


Crawled  on  the  loathing  earth?  Are  not 
thy  days 

Days  of  unsatisfying  listlessness? 

Dost  thou  not  cry,  ere  night's  long  rack 
is  o'er, 

When  will  the  morning  come?  Is  not 
thy  youth 

A  vain  and  feverish  dream  of  sensualism? 

Thy  manhood  blighted  with  unripe  dis- 
ease? 

Are  not  thy  views  of  unregretted  death 

Drear,  comfortless,  and  horrible?  Thy 
mind, 

Is  it  not  morbid  as  thy  nerveless  frame, 

Incapable  of  judgment,  hope,  or  love? 

And  dost  thou  wish  the  errors  to  survive 

That  bar  thee  from  all  sympathies  of 
good, 

After  the  miserable  interest 

Thou  hold'st  in  their  protraction?  When 
the  grave 

Has  swallowed  up  thy  memory  and  thy- 
self, 

Dost  thou  desire  the  bane  that  poisons 
earth 

To  twine  its  roots  around  thy  coffined 
clay, 

Spring  from  thy  bones,  and  blossom  on 
thy  tomb, 

That  of  its  fruit  thy  babes  may  eat  and 
die? 


V. 


Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 
Go   to    the   grave,  and   issue   from    the 

womb, 
Surviving  still  the  imperishable  change 
That  renovates  the  world;    even  as  the 

leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  wan- 
ing year 
Has   scattered    on    the    forest    soil,  and 

heaped 
For    many    seasons    there,  though    long 

they  choke, 
Loading  with  loathsome  rottenness  the 

land, 
All  germs  of  promise,  yet  when  the  tall 

trees 
From  which    they    fell,    shorn    of    their 

lovely  shapes, 


42 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Lie    level    with    the    earth    to    moulder 

there, 
They    fertilize    the    land    they  long    de- 
formed, 
Till    from    the    breathing    lawn  a  forest 

springs 
Of  youth,  integrity,  and  loveliness, 
Like   that  which  gave    it  life,  to  spring 

and  die. 
Thus  suicidal  selfishness,  that  blights 
The  fairest  feelings  of  the  opening  heart, 
Is  destined  to  decay,  whilst  from  the  soil 
Shall    spring    all  virtue,   all  delight,  all 

love, 
And  judgment  cease  to  wage  unnatural 

war 
With  passion's  unsubduable  array. 
Twin-sister  of  religion,  selfishness! 
Rival  in  crime  and  falsehood,  aping  all 
The  wanton  horrors  of  her  bloody  play; 
Yet  frozen,  unimpassioned,  spiritless, 
Shunning  the  light,  and  owning  not  its 

name, 
Compelled,  by  its  deformity,  to  screen 
With  flimsy  veil  of  justice  and  of  right, 
Its  unattractive  lineaments,  that  scare 
All,    save    the    brood  of    ignorance:    at 

once 
The  cause  and  the  effect  of  tyranny; 
Unblushing,     hardened,     sensual,     and 

vile; 
Dead  to  all  love  but  of  its  abjectness, 
With    heart    impassive    by    more    noble 

powers 
Than  unshared  pleasure,  sordid  gain,  or 

fame ; 
Despising  its  own  miserable  being, 
Which    still  it    longs,   yet  fears    to   dis- 
enthrall. 

Hence  commerce  springs,  the  venal 
interchange 

Of  all  that  human  art  or  nature  yield; 

Which  wealth  should  purchase  not,  but 
want  demand, 

And  natural  kindness  hasten  to  supply 

From  the  full  fountain  of  its  boundless 
love, 

Forever  stifled,  drained,  and  tainted  now. 

Commerce !  beneath  whose  poison- 
breathing   shade 

No  solitary  virtue  dares  to  spring, 

But  poverty  and  wealth  with  equal  hand 


Scatter  their  withering  curses,  and  unfold 
The    doors    of    premature    and    violent 

death, 
To  pining  famine  and  full-fed  disease, 
To  all  that  shares  the  lot  of  human  life, 
Which  poisoned,  body  and  soul,  scarce 

drags  the  chain, 
That    lengthens    as  it    goes    and   clanks 

behind. 

Commerce  has  set  the   mark  of  selfish- 
ness, 
The  signet  of  its  all-enslaving  power 
Upon  a  shining  ore,  and  called  it  gold: 
Before    whose    image    bow    the    vulgar 

great, 
The  vainly  rich,  the  miserable  proud, 
The   mob   of    peasants,    nobles,    priests, 

and  kings, 
And  with  blind   feelings  reference   the 

power 
That  grinds  them  to  the  dust  of  misery. 
But  in  the  temple  of  their  hireling  hearts 
Gold  is  a  living  god,  and  rules  in  scorn 
All  earthly  things  but  virtue. 

Since  tyrants,  by  the  sale  of  human  life, 
Heap  luxuries   to  their  sensualism,  and 

fame 
To  their  wide-wasting  and  insatiate  pride, 
Success    has    sanctioned    to   a  credulous 

world 
The  ruin,  the  disgrace,  the  woe  of  war. 
His  hosts  of  blind  and  unresisting  dupes 
The  despot  numbers;    from  his  cabinet 
These  puppets  of  his  schemes  he  moves 

at  will, 
Even  as  the  slaves  by  force   or  famine 

driven, 
Beneath  a  vulgar  master,  to  perform 
A  task  of  cold  and  brutal  drudgery;  — 
Hardened  to  hope,  insensible  to  fear, 
Scarce  living  pulleys  of  a  dead  machine, 
Mere    wheels    of  work    and    articles    of 

trade, 
That  grace  the  proud  and  noisy  pomp  of 

wealth ! 

The  harmony  and  happiness  of  man 
Yields  to   the   wealth  of    nations;    that 

which  lifts 
His  nature  to  the  heaven  of  its  pride 
Is  bartered  for  the  poison  of  his  soul; 


QUEEN  MAB. 


43 


The  weight  that  drags  to  earth  his  tower- 
ing hopes, 
Blighting  all  prospect  but  of  selfish  gain, 
Withering  all  passion  but  of  slavish  fear, 
Extinguishing  all  free  and  generous  love 
Of  enterprise  and  daring,  even  the  pulse 
That  fancy  kindles  in  the  beating  heart 
To  mingle  with  sensation,  it  destroys,  — 
Leaves    nothing    but    the  sordid  lust  of 

self, 
The  grovelling  hope  of  interest  and  gold, 
Unqualified,  unmingled,  unredeemed 
Even  by  hypocrisy. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of   wealth  !  The  wordy  eloquence,  that 

lives 
After  the  ruin  of  their  hearts,  can  gild 
The  bitter  poison  of  a  nation's  woe, 
Can  turn  the  worship  of  the  servile  mob 
To  their  corrupt  and  glaring  idol  fame, 
From  virtue,  trampled  by  its  iron  tread, 
Although  its  dazzling  pedestal  be  raised 
Amid  the  horrors  of  a  limb-strewn  field, 
With  desolated  dwellings  smoking  round. 
The  man  of  ease,  who,  by  his  warm  fire- 
side, 
To  deeds  of  charitable  intercourse 
And  bare  fulfilment  of  the  common  laws 
Of  decency  and  prejudice,  confines 
The  struggling  nature  of  his  human  heart, 
Is    duped   by    their    cold    sophistry;    he 

sheds 
A  passing  tear  perchance  upon  the  wreck 
Of  earthly  peace,  when  near  his  dwell- 
ing's door 
The  frightful  waves  are  driven,  —  when 

his  son 
Is  murdered  by  the  tyrant,  or  religion 
Drives    his  wife   raving    mad.     But   the 

poor  man, 
Whose  life  is  misery,  and  fear,  and  care; 
Whom  the  morn  wakens  but  to  fruitless 

toil; 
Who  ever  hears  his  famished  offspring's 

scream, 
Whom  their  pale  mother's  uncomplain- 
ing gaze 
Forever  meets,  and  the  proud  rich  man's 

eye 
Flashing  command,  and  the  heart-break- 
ing scene 
Of    thousands    like    himself;  —  he    little 
heeds 


The  rhetoric  of  tyranny;   his  hate 

Is  quenchless  as  his  wrongs;   he   laughs 

to  scorn 
The  vain  and  bitter  mockery  of  words, 
Feeling  the  horror  of  the  tyrant's  deeds, 
And    unrestrained    but    by    the    arm    of 

power, 
That  knows  and  dreads  his  enmity. 

The  iron  rod  of  penury  still  compels 
Her  wretched  slave  to  bow  the  knee  to 

wealth, 
And  poison,  with  unprofitable  toil, 
A  life  too  void  of  solace  to  confirm 
The    very    chains  that   bind  him  to  his 

doom. 
Nature,  impartial  in  munificence, 
Has  gifted  man  with  all-subduing  will. 
Matter,  with  all  its  transitory  shapes, 
Lies  subjected  and  plastic  at  his  feet, 
That,    weak   from   bondage,    tremble    as 

they  tread. 
How  many  a  rustic  Milton  has  passed  by, 
Stifling  the   speechless    longings    of    his 

heart, 
In  unremitting  drudgery  and  care  ! 
How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  compelled 
His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then, 
To  mould  a  pin,  or  fabricate  a  nail ! 
How  many  a  Newton,  to  whose  passive 

ken 
Those  mighty  spheres  that  gem  infinity 
Were    only    specks    of    tinsel,    fixed    in 

heaven 
To    light   the    midnights    of    his    native 

town  ! 

Yet    every    heart    contains    perfection's 

germ : 
The  wisest  of  the  sages  of  the  earth, 
That  ever  from  the  stores  of  reason  drew 
Science  and  truth,  and  virtue's  dreadless 

tone, 
Were  but  a  weak  and  inexperienced  boy, 
Proud,    sensual,    unimpassioned,     unim- 

bued 
With  pure  desire  and  universal  love, 
Compared  to  that  high  being,  of  cloud- 
less brain, 
Untainted  passion,  elevated  will, 
Which    death    (who    even  would  linger 

long  in  awe 
Within  his  noble  presence,  and  beneath 


44 


QUEEN  MAB. 


His    changeless    eyebeam)    might   alone 

subdue. 
Him,  every  slave  now   dragging  through 

the  filth 
Of  some  corrupted  city  his  sad  life, 
Pining  with  famine,  swoln  with  luxury, 
Blunting  the    keenness    of   his    spiritual 

sense 
With    narrow  schemings   and    unworthy 

cares, 
Or    madly    rushing    through    all    violent 

crime, 
To    move    the    deep    stagnation    of    his 

soul,  — 
Might  imitate  and  equal. 

But  mean  lust 
Has   bound   its  chains  so    tight    around 

the  earth, 
That  all  within  it  but  the  virtuous  man 
Is  venal:   gold  or  fame  will  surely  reach 
The  price  prefixed  by  selfishness,  to  all 
But    him    of    resolute    and    unchanging 

will; 
Whom,    nor    the    plaudits    of    a    servile 

crowd, 
Nor  the  vile  joys  of  tainting  luxury, 
Can  bribe  to  yield  his  elevated  soul 
To   tyranny    or    falsehood,   though   they 

wield 
With  blood-red  hand  the  sceptre  of  the 

world. 

All   things  are  sold :    the  very   light    of 

heaven 
Is  venal;    earth's  unsparing  gifts  of  love, 
The  smallest  and  most  despicable  things 
That  lurk  in  the  abysses  of  the  deep, 
All  objects  of  our  life,  even  life  itself, 
And  the  poor  pittance  which  the   laws 

allow 
Of  liberty,  the  fellowship  of  man, 
Those  duties  which  his  heart  of  human 

love 
Should  urge  him  to  perform  instinctively, 
Are  bought  and  sold  as  in  a  public  mart 
Of  undisguising  selfishness,  that  sets 
On  each   its   price,   the    stamp-mark    of 

her  reign. 
Even  love  is  sold;   the  solace  of  all  woe 
Is  turned  to  deadliest  agony,  old  age 
Shivers  in  selfish  beauty's  loathing  arms, 
And  youth's  corrupted  impulses  prepare 
A  life  of  horror  from  the  blighting  bane 


Of  commerce;    whilst  the  pestilence  that 

springs 
From  unenjoying  sensualism,  has  filled 
All  human  life  with  hydra-headed  woes. 

Falsehood  demands  but  gold  to  pay  the 

pangs 
Of  outraged  conscience;    for  the  slavish 

priest 
Sets  no  great  value  on  his  hireling  faith : 
A  little  passing  pomp,  some  servile  souls, 
Whom    cowardice     itself    might    safely 

chain, 
Or  the  spare  mite  of  avarice  could  bribe 
To  deck  the  triumph  of  their  languid  zeal, 
Can  make  him  minister  to  tyranny. 
More    daring    crime    requires    a    loftier 

meed: 
Without    a    shudder,     the    slave-soldier 

lends 
His  arm  to  murderous  deeds,  and  steels 

his  heart, 
When  the  dread  eloquence  of  dying  men, 
Low    mingling    on    the    lonely    field  of 

fame, 
Assails  that  nature,  whose    applause  he 

sells 
For  the  gross  blessings  of  a  patriot  mob, 
For  the  vile  gratitude  of  heartless  kings, 
And   for   a   cold  world's  good  word,  — ■ 

viler  still ! 

There  is  a  nobler  glory,  which  survives 
Until  our  being  fades,  and  solacing 
All  human  care,  accompanies  its  change; 
Deserts    not    virtue    in    the    dungeon's 

gloom, 
And,    in    the    precincts    of    the    palace, 

guides 
Its    footsteps   through   that    labyrinth   of 

crime; 
Imbues   his    lineaments    with    dauntless- 

ness, 
Even     when,     from     power's     avenging 

hand,  he  takes 
Its    sweetest,    last    and    noblest    title  — 

death; 
— -The    consciousness    of    good,    which 

neither  gold, 
Nor  sordid  fame,  nor  hope  of  heavenly 

bliss, 
Can    purchase;     but    a    life    of    resolute 

good. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


45 


Unalterable  will,  quenchless  desire 
Of  universal  happiness,  the  heart 
That  beats  with  it  in  unison,  the  brain, 
Whose    ever    wakeful    wisdom    toils    to 

change 
Reason's  rich  stores  for  its  eternal  weal. 

This  commerce  of  sincerest  virtue  needs 
No  mediative  signs  of  selfishness, 
No  jealous  intercourse  of  wretched  gain, 
No    balancings    of    prudence,    cold    and 

long; 
In  just  and  equal  measure  all  is  weighed, 
One  scale   contains   the   sum   of    human 

weal, 
And  one,  the  good  man's  heart. 

How  vainly  seek 
The  selfish  for  that  happiness  denied 
To   aught   but  virtue  !       Blind  and  har- 
dened, they, 
Who  hope  for  peace  amid  the  storms  of 

care, 
Who  covet  power  they  know   not    how 

to  use, 
And    sigh    for    pleasure    they    refuse    to 

give,— 
Madly    they    frustrate    still    their    own 

designs; 
And,  where  they  hope  that  quiet  to  enjoy 
Which  virtue  pictures,  bitterness  of  soul, 
Pining  regrets,  and  vain  repentances, 
Disease,  disgust,  and  lassitude,  pervade 
Their  valueless  and  miserable  lives. 

But  hoary-headed  selfishness  has  felt 
Its   death-blow,  and   is   tottering   to   the 

grave  : 
A  brighter  morn  awaits  the  human  day, 
When  every  transfer  of    earth's   natural 

gifts 
Shall  be  a  commerce  of  good  words  and 

works  ; 
When  poverty  and  wealth,  the  thirst   of 

fame, 
The  fear  of  infamy,  disease  and  woe, 
War  with  its  million  horrors,  and  fierce 

hell 
Shall  live  but  in  the  memory  of  time. 
Who,  like  a  penitent  libertine,  shall  start, 
Look  back,  and  shudder  at  his  younger 

years. 


VI. 

All  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
The  Spirit  felt  the  Fairy's  burning  speech. 

O'er  the  thin  texture  of  its  frame, 
The   varying    periods    painted    changing 
glows, 
As  on  a  summer  even, 
When  soul-enfokling  music  floats  around, 
The  stainless  mirror  of  the  lake 
Re-images  the  eastern  gloom, 
Mingling  convulsively  its  purple  hues 
With  sunset's  burnished  gold. 

Then  thus  the  Spirit  spoke: 
It  is  a  wild  and  miserable  world  ! 

Thorny,  and  full  of  care, 
Which  every  fiend  can  make  his  prey  at 
will. 
O  Fairy  !   in  the  lapse  of  years, 
Is  there  no  hope  in  store  ? 
Will  yon  vast  suns  roll  on 
Interminably,  still  illuming 
The  night  of  so  many  wretched  souls, 
Ami  see  no  hope  for  them  ? 
Will  not  the  universal  Spirit  e'er 
Revivify  this  withered  limb  of  Heaven? 


The  Fairy  calmly  smiled 
In  comfort,  and  a  kindling  gleam  of  hope 

Suffused  the  Spirit's  lineaments. 
Oh  !   rest  thee  tranquil;  chase  those  fear- 
ful doubts, 
Which  ne'er  could   rack   an    everlasting 

soul, 
That  sees  the  chains  which  bind  it  to  its 

doom. 
Yes  !  crime  and  misery    are  in  yonder 
earth, 
Falsehood,  mistake,  and  lust; 
But  the  eternal  world 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure. 
Some  eminent  in  virtue  shall  start  up, 

Even  in  perversest  time : 
The  truths  of  their  pure   lips,  that   never 

die, 
Shall   bind  the  scorpion   falsehood  with 
a  wreath 
Of  ever-living  flame, 
Until  the  monster  sting  itself  to  death. 


46 


QUEEN  MAB. 


How  sweet  a  scene  will  earth  become  ! 
Of  purest  spirits  a  pure  dwelling-place, 
Symphonious  with  the  planetary  spheres; 
When  man,  with  changeless  nature   coa- 
lescing, 
Will  undertake  regeneration's  work, 
When  its  ungenial  poles  no  longer  point 
To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 
That  faintly  twinkles  there. 

Spirit  !  on  yonder  earth, 
Falsehood     now     triumphs  :      deadly 
power 
Has  fixed  its  seal  upon  the  lip  of  truth  ! 

Madness  and  misery  are  there  ! 
The    happiest    is    most   wretched !      Yet 

confide, 
Until  pure   health-drops,    from    the  cup 

of  joy, 
Fall  like  a  dew  of  balm  upon  the  world. 
Now,  to  the    scene   I   show,    in   silence 

turn, 
And  read  the   blood-stained   charter    of 

all  woe, 
Which  nature  soon,  with  recreating  hand, 
Will   blot   in   mercy   from   the    book    of 

earth. 
How  bold  the  flight  of  passion's  wander- 
ing wing, 
How  swift  the  step    of    reason's    firmer 

tread, 
How  calm  and  sweet  the  victories  of  life, 
How  terrorless  the  triumph  of  the  grave  ! 
How     powerless     were     the     mightiest 

monarch's  arm, 
Vain  his  loud  threat,  and  impotent  his 

frown  ! 
How     ludicrous   the     priest's     dogmatic 

roar  ! 
The  weight  of  his  exterminating  curse, 
How  light  !  and  his  affected  charity, 
To    suit    the    pressure    of    the    changing 

times, 
What  palpable  deceit !  — but  for  thy  aid, 
Religion  !  but  for  thee,  prolific  fiend, 
Who  peoplest   earth  with   demons,   hell 

with  men, 
And  heaven  with  slaves  ! 

Thou  taintest  all  thou  look'st  upon  !  — 

the  stars, 
Which  on  thy  cradle  beamed  so  brightly 

sweet, 


Were  gods  to   the   distempered   playful- 
ness 
Of  thy  untutored  infancy  :   the  trees, 
The  grass,   the    clouds,    the    mountains, 

and  the  sea, 
All  living  things  that  walk,  swim,  creep, 

or  fly, 
Were  gods  :   the  sun  had  homage,   and 

the  moon 
Her  worshipper.     Then  thou  becamest, 

a  boy, 
More    daring    in     thy     frenzies  :      every 

shape, 
Monstrous  or  vast,  or  beautifully  wild, 
Which,    from    sensation's    relics,    fancy 

culls  ; 
The   spirits  of    the    air,    the   shuddering 

ghost, 
The  genii  of  the  elements,  the  powers 
That    give    a    shape    to    nature's    varied 

works, 
Had  life  and  place  in  the  corrupt  belief 
Of  thy  blind  heart :  yet  still  thy  youthful 

hands 
Were  pure  of  human  blood.    Then  man- 
hood gave 
Its  strength   and    ardor   to  thy   frenzied 

brain  ; 
Thine    eager  gaze  scanned    the    stupen- 
dous scene 
Whose  wonders  mocked  the  knowledge 

of  thy  pride : 
Their  everlasting  and  unchanging  laws 
Reproached    thine    ignorance.       Awhile 

thou  stood'st 
Baffled    and    gloomy  ;     then    thou    didst 

sum  up 
The  elements  of  all  that  thou  didst  know; 
The  changing  seasons,    winter's   leafless 

reign, 
The    budding    of    the    heaven-breathing 

trees, 
The  eternal  orbs  that  beautify  the  night, 
The  sunrise,  and  the  setting  of  the  moon, 
Earthquakes  and   wars,  and  poisons  and 

disease, 
And    all    their    causes,    to     an     abstract 

point, 
Converging,  thou  didst  bend  and  called 

it  God  ! 
The  self-sufficing,  the  omnipotent, 
The  merciful,  and  the  avenging  God  ! 
Who,  prototype  of  human  misrule,  sits 


QUEEN  MAB. 


47 


High  in  heaven's  realm  upon  a  golden 

throne, 
Even  like  an  earthly  king  ;    and  whose 

dread  work, 
Hell,    gapes    forever    for    the     unhappy 

slaves 
Of  fate,  whom  he  created,  in  his  sport, 
To  triumph  in  their  torments  when  they 

fell ! 
Earth  heard  the  name  ;    earth  trembled, 

as  the  smoke 
Of  his  revenge  ascended  up  to  heaven, 
Blotting  the  constellations;  and  the  cries 
Of    millions,   butchered  in    sweet   confi- 
dence 
And  unsuspecting  peace,  even  when  the 

bonds 
Of  safety  were  confirmed  by  wordy  oaths 
Sworn  in  his  dreadful  name,  rung  through 

the  land: 
Whilst    innocent   babes   writhed  on   thy 

stubborn  spear, 
And  thou  didst  laugh  to  hear  the  mother's 

shriek 
Of  maniac  gladness,  as  the  sacred  steel 
Felt  cold  in  her  torn  entrails  ! 


Religion!  thou  wert  then  in  manhood's 

prime : 
But  age  crept  on:   one  God  would   not 

suffice 
For  senile  puerility;    thou  framedst 
A  tale  to  suit  thy  dotage,  and  to  glut 
Thy  misery-thirsting   soul,  that  the  mad 

fiend 
Thy    wickedness     had    pictured     might 

afford 
A  plea  for  sating  the  unnatural  thirst 
For  murder,  rapine,  violence,  and  crime, 
That    still    consumed     thy    being,    even 

when 
Thou  heard'st  the  step  of    fate;  — that 

flames  might  light 
Thy  funeral  scene,  and  the  shrill  horrent 

shrieks 
Of  parents  dying  on  the  pile  that  burned 
To  light  their  children  to  thy  paths,  the 

roar 
Of   the   encircling    flames,    the    exulting 

cries 
Of    thine    apostles,     loud    commingling 

there, 


Might  sate  thine  hungry  ear 
Even  on  the  bed  of  death  ! 

But  now  contempt  is  mocking  thy  gray 
hairs; 

Thou  art  descending  to  the  darksome 
grave, 

Unhonored    and  unpitied,  but   by  those 

Whose  pride  is  passing  by  like  thine, 
and  sheds, 

Like  thine,  a  glare  that  fades  before  the 
sun 

Of  truth,  and  shines  but  in  the  dread- 
ful night 

That  long  has  lowered  above  the  ruined 
world. 

Throughout  these  infinite  orbs  of  min- 
gling light, 

Of  which  yon  earth  is  one,  is  wide 
diffused 

A  spirit  of  activity  and  life, 

That  knows  no  term,  cessation,  or  decay; 

That  fades  not  when  the  lamp  of  earthly 
life, 

Extinguished  in  the  dampness  of  the 
grave, 

Awhile  there  slumbers,  more  than  when 
the  babe 

In  the  dim  newness  of  its  being  feels 

The  impulses  of  sublunary  things, 

And  all  is  wonder  to  unpractised  sense: 

But,  active,  steadfast,  and  eternal,  still 

Guides  the  fierce  whirlwind,  in  the  tem- 
pest roars, 

Cheers  in  the  day,  breathes  in  the  balmy 
groves, 

Strengthens  in  health,  and  poisons  in 
disease; 

And  in  the  storm  of  change,  that  cease- 
lessly 

Rolls  round  the  eternal  universe,  and 
shakes 

Its  undecaying  battlement,  presides, 

Apportioning  with  irresistible  law 

The  place  each  spring  of  its  machine 
shall  fill; 

So  that  when  waves  on  waves  tumultuous 
heap 

Confusion  to  the  clouds,  and  fiercely 
driven 

Heaven's  lightnings  scorch  the  uprooted 
ocean-fords, 


4s 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Whilst,     to     the    eye    of     shipwrecked 

mariner, 
Lone  sitting  on  the  bare  and  shuddering 

rock, 
All    seems    unlinked    contingency    and 

chance : 
No  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitated  task, 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  or  ought  to  act. 
Even  the  minutest  molecule  of  light, 
That  in  an  April  sunbeam's  fleeting  glow 
Fulfils    its    destined,     though     invisible 

work, 
The  universal'  Spirit  guides;  nor  less, 
When  merciless  ambition,  or  mad  zeal, 
Has  led  two  hosts   of   dupes  to  battle- 
field, 
That,    blind,   they    there    may   dig  each 

other's  graves, 
And  call  the  sad  work  glory,  does  it  rule 
All  passions:   not  a  thought,  a  will,  an 

act, 
No  working  of  the  tyrant's  moody  mind, 
Nor   one  misgiving    of    the    slaves    who 

boast 
Their  servitude,  to  hide  the  shame  they 

feel, 
Nor  the  events  enchaining  every  will, 
That    from    the    depths    of    unrecorded 

time 
Have  drawn  all-influencing  virtue,  pass 
Unrecognized,  or  unforeseen  by  thee, 
Soul  of  the  Universe  !   eternal  spring 
Of  life  and  death,  of  happiness  and  woe, 
Of    all     that    chequers    the     phantasmal 

scene 
That  floats  before  our  eyes  in  wavering 

light, 
Which  gleams   but  on  the    darkness  of 

our  prison, 
Whose  chains  and  massy  walls 
We  feel,  but  cannot  see. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  all-sufficing  Power, 
Necessity  !  thou  mother  of  the  world  ! 
Unlike  the  God  of  human  error,  thou 
Pvequirest     no     prayers    or     praises;    the 

caprice 
Of  man's  weak  will  belongs  no  more  to 

thee 
Than   do   the    changeful    passions  of  his 

breast 
To  thy  unvarying  harmony:    the  slave, 


Whose  horrible  lusts  spread  misery  o'er 

the  world, 
And  the  good  man,  who  lifts,  with  vir- 
tuous pride, 
His  being,  in  the  sight  of  happiness, 
That  springs  from  his  own  works;   the 

poison-tree, 
Beneath  whose  shade  all  life  is  withered 

up, 
And   the    fair    oak,    whose    leafy    dome 

affords 
A  temple  where  the  vows  of  happy  love 
Are  registered,  are  equal  in  thy  sight: 
No  love,  no  hate  thou  cherishest;  revenge 
And    favoritism,     and    worst    desire    of 

fame 
Thou    knowest    not :   all    that    the    wide 

world  contains 
Are    but    thy    passive    instruments,    and 

thou 
Regard'st  them  all  with  an  impartial  eye, 
Whose   joy   or    pain   thy   nature   cannot 

feel, 
Because  thou  hast  not  human  sense, 
Because  thou  art  not  human  mind. 


Yes  !  when  the  sweeping  storm  of  time 
Has  sung  its  death-dirge  o'er  the  ruined 

fanes 
And  broken  altars  of  the  almighty  fiend, 
Whose  name  usurps  thy  honors,  and  the 

blood 
Through    centuries    clotted    there,     has 

floated  down 
The  tainted  flood  of  ages,  shalt  thou  live 
Unchangeable  !     A    shrine    is    raised    to 
thee, 
Which,  nor  the  tempest  breath  of  time, 
Nor  the  interminable  flood, 
Over  earth's  slight  pageant  rolling, 
Availeth  to  destroy,  — 
The  sensitive  extension  of  the  world. 

That  wondrous  and  eternal  fane, 
Where  pain  and  pleasure,  good  and  evil 

join, 
To  do  the  will  of  strong  necessity, 

And  life,  in  multitudinous  shapes, 
Still    pressing    forward    where    no    term 
can  be, 
Like  hungry  and  unresting  flame 
Curls   round  the    eternal   columns  of  its 
strength. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


49 


VII. 


SPIRIT. 


I  was  an  infant  when  my  mother  went 

To  see  an  atheist  burned.  She  took  me 
there : 

The  dark-robed  priests  were  met  around 
the  pile; 

The  multitude  was  gazing  silently; 

And  as  the  culprit  passed  with  dauntless 
mien, 

Tempered  disdain  in  his  unaltering  eye, 

Mixed  with  a  quiet  smile,  shone  calmly 
forth: 

The  thirsty  fire  crept  round  his  manly 
limbs; 

His  resolute  eyes  were  scorched  to  blind- 
ness soon; 

His  death-pang  rent  my  heart !  the  in- 
sensate mob 

Uttered  a  cry  of  triumph,  and  I  wept. 

Weep  not,  child  !  cried  my  mother,  for 
that  man 

Has  said,  There  is  no  God. 

fairy  . 

There  is  no  God  ! 
Nature  confirms  the  faith  his  death-groan 

sealed: 
Let  heaven  and  earth,  let  man's  revolv- 
ing race, 
His  ceaseless  generations  tell  their  tale; 
Let  every  part  depending  on  the  chain 
That  links  it  to  the   whole,  point  to  the 

hand 
That  grasps  its  term  !  let  every  seed  that 

falls 
In  silent  eloquence  unfold  its  store 
Of  argument:   infinity  within, 
Infinity  without,  belie  creation; 
The  exterminable  spirit  it  contains 
Is  nature's  only  God;   but  human  pride 
Is  skilful  to  invent  most  serious  names 
To  hide  its  ignorance. 

The  name  of  God 
Has  fenced  about  ail  crime  with  holiness, 
Himself  the  creature  of  his  worshippers, 
Whose  names  and  attributes  and  pas- 
sions change, 
Seeva,  Buddh,  Foh,  Jehovah,  God,  or 
Lord, 


Even  with  the  human  dupes  who  build 

his  shrines, 
Still  serving  o'er  the  war-polluted  world 
For    desolation's    watchword;     whether 

hosts 
Stain  his  death-blushing  chariot-wheels, 

as  on 
Triumphantly  they  roll,  whilst  Brahmins 

raise 
A    sacred    hymn    to    mingle    with    the 

groans; 
Or  countless  partners  of  his  power  divide 
His  tyranny  to  weakness;    or  the  smoke 
Of  burning    towns,  the  cries  of    female 

helplessness, 
Unarmed    old    age,  and  youth,  and  in- 
fancy, 
Horribly  massacred,  ascend  to  heaven 
In  honor  of  his  name;  or,  last  and  worst, 
Earth  groans  beneath  religion's  iron  age, 
And    priests  dare  babble  of    a   God    of 

peace, 
Even   whilst    their    hands  are    red   with 

guiltless  blood, 
Murdering  the    while,    uprooting    every 

germ 
Of  truth,  exterminating,  spoiling  all, 
Making  the  earth  a  slaughter-house  ! 

O  Spirit !  through  the  sense 
By  which  thy  inner  nature  was  apprised 
Of  outward  shows,  vague  dreams  have 

rolled, 
And  varied  reminiscences  have  waked 

Tablets  that  never  fade; 
All  things  have  been  imprinted  there, 
The  stars,  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky, 
Even  the  unshapeliest  lineaments 
Of  wild  and  fleeting  visions 
Have  left  a  record  there 
To  testify  of  earth. 

These  are  my  empire,  for  to  me  is  given 
The    wonders    of   the    human    world    to 

keep, 
And  fancy's  thin  creations  to  endow 
With  manner,  being,  and  reality; 
Therefore    a  wondrous    phantom,    from 

the  dreams 
Of   human  error's   dense    and    purblind 

faith, 
I  will  evoke,  to  meet  thy  questioning. 
Ahasuerus,  rise  ! 


5° 


QUEEN  MAD. 


A  strange  and  woe-worn  wight 
Arose  beside  the  battlement, 

And  stood  unmoving  there. 
His  inessential  figure  cast  no  shade 

Upon  the  golden  floor; 
His  port  and  mien  bore   mark   of  many 

years, 
And  chronicles  of  untold  ancientness 
Were  legible  within  his  beamless  eye : 

Yet  his  cheek  bore  the  mark  of  youth; 
Freshness    and    vigor     knit    his    manly 

frame ; 
The   wisdom    of   old   age   was   mingled 
there 
With  youth's  primeval  dauntlessness; 
And  inexpressible  woe, 
Chastened  by  fearless  resignation,  gave 
An  awful  grace  to  his  all-speaking  brow. 

SPIRIT. 

Is  there  a  God? 

AHASUERUS. 

Is  there  a  God  !  —  ay,  an  almighty  God, 
And   vengeful    as  almighty !     Once    his 

voice 
Was    heard  on    earth :    earth  shuddered 

at  the  sound; 
The  fiery-visaged  firmament  expressed 
Abhorrence,    and    the    grave    of    nature 

yawned 
To    swallow    all    the  dauntless  and    the 


That  dared  to  hurl  defiance  at  his  throne, 
Girt    as  it   was  with  power.     None  but 

slaves 
Survived, — cold-blooded     slaves,    who 

did  the  work 
Of  tyrannous  omnipotence;   whose  souls 
No  honest  indignation  ever  urged 
To  elevated  daring,  to  one  deed 
Which    gross    and    sensual    self  did  not 

pollute. 
These  slaves  built  temples  for   the  om- 
nipotent fiend, 
Gorgeous    and     vast :    the    costly    altars 

smoked 
With  human   blood,   and   hideous  paeans 

rung 
Through  all  the    long-drawn  aisles.     A 

murderer  heard 


His  voice  in  Egypt,  one  whose  gifts  and 

arts 
Had  raised  him  to  his  eminence  in  power, 
Accomplice  of  omnipotence  in  crime, 
And  confidant  of  the  all-knowing  one. 
These  were  Jehovah's  words. 

"  From  an  eternity  of  idleness 

I,  God,  awoke;  in  seven  days'  toil  made 

earth 
From  nothing;  rested,  and  created  man: 
I  placed  him  in  a  paradise,  and  there 
Planted  the  tree  of  evil,  so  that  he 
Might  eat  and  perish,  and  my  soul  pro- 
cure 
Wherewith  to  sate  its  malice,  and  to  turn, 
Even  like  a  heartless  conqueror  of  the 

earth, 
All  misery  to  my  fame.     The  race  of  men 
Chosen  to  my  honor,  with  impunity 
May    sate    the    lusts    I  planted  in  their 

heart. 
Here    I    command    thee  hence    to    lead 

them  on, 
Until,  with  hardened  feet,  their  conquer- 
ing troops 
Wade    on    the    promised    soil    through 

woman's  blood, 
And  make  my  name  be  dreaded  through 

the  land. 
Yet  ever-burning  flame  and  ceaseless  woe 
Shall  be  the  doom  of  their  eternal  souls, 
With  every  soul  on  this  ungrateful  earth, 
Virtuous  or  vicious,  weak  or  strong,  — - 

even  all 
Shall  perish,  to  fulfil  the  blind  revenge 
(Which    you,   to    men,   call    justice)  of 
their  God." 

The  murderer's  brow 
Quivered  with  horror. 

"  God  omnipotent, 
Is  there  no  mercy?  must  our  punishment 
Be  endless?  will  long  ages  roll  away, 
And  see  no  term?     Oh!  wherefore  hast 

thou  made 
In  mockery  and  wrath  this  evil  earth? 
Mercy   becomes   the    powerful  —  be  but 

just : 

0  God  !  repent  and  save." 

"  One  way  remains: 

1  will  beget  a  son,  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sins  of  all  the  world;    he  shall  arise 


QUEEN  MAB. 


In  an  unnoticed  corner  of  the  earth, 
And  there  shall  die  upon  a  cross,  and 

purge 
The  universal  crime;   so  that  the  few 
On  whom  my  grace  descends,  those  who 

are  marked 
As  vessels  to  the  honor  of  their  God, 
May    credit    this    strange   sacrifice,    and 

save 
Their  souls  alive :   millions  shall  live  and 

die, 
Who  ne'er  shall  call  upon  their  Saviour's 

name, 
But,  unredeemed,  go  to  the  gaping  grave. 
Thousands  shall  deem  it  an  old  woman's 

tale, 
Such  as  the  nurses  frighten  babes  withal : 
These    in    a   gulph    of    anguish    and  of 

flame 
Shall  curse  their  reprobation  endlessly, 
Yet   tenfold  pangs   shall   force   them  to 

avow, 
Even  on  their  beds  of  torment,  where 

they  howl, 
My  honor,  and  the  justice  of  their  doom. 
"What    then    avail    their  virtuous  deeds, 

their  thoughts 
Of  purity,  with  radiant  genius  bright, 
Or  lit  with  human  reason's  earthly  ray? 
Many  are  called,  but  few  will  I  elect. 
Do  thou  my  bidding,  Moses  !  " 

Even  the  murderer's  cheek 
Was  blanched  with  horror,  and  his  quiv- 
ering lips 
Scarce    faintly    uttered  —  "O    almighty 

one, 
I  tremble  and  obey  !  " 

O  Spirit !   centuries  have  set  their  seal 
On    this    heart    of    many    wounds,    and 

loaded  brain, 
Since  the    Incarnate  came :    humbly  he 

came, 
Veiling    his    horrible    Godhead    in    the 

shape 
Of  man,  scorned  by  the  world,  his  name 

unheard, 
Save  by  the  rabble  of  his  native  town, 
Even  as  a  parish  demagogue.     He  led 
The    crowd;     he    taught    them    justice, 

truth,  and  peace, 
In  semblance;    but    he  lit  within   their 

souls 


The  quenchless  flames  of  zeal,  and  blest 

the  sword 
He  brought  on  earth  to  satiate  with  the 

blood 
Of  truth  and  freedom  his  malignant  soul. 
At  length  his  mortal   frame  was  led  to 

death. 
I    stood    beside    him :    on  the  torturing 

cross 
No  pain  assailed  his  unterrestrial  sense; 
And   yet    he    groaned.       Indignantly    I 

summed 
The  massacres    and    miseries  which   his 

name 
Had  sanctioned  in  my  country,   and    I 

cried, 
"  Go  !  go  !  "  in  mockery. 
A  smile  of  godlike  malice  reillumined 
His    fading    lineaments.  —  "I    go,"  he 

cried, 
"  But  thou  shalt  wander  o'er  the  unquiet 

earth 
Eternally." The    dampness    of    the 

grave 
Bathed  my  imperishable  front.     I  fell, 
And  long  lay  tranced  upon  the  charmed 

•       soil. 
When   I  awoke   hell  burned  within  my 

brain, 
Which    staggered    on   its   seat;     for    all 

around 
The  mouldering  relics  of  my  kindred  lay, 
Even    as    the    Almighty's    ire    arrested 

them, 
And  in  their  various  attitudes  of  death 
My  murdered  children's  mute  and  eye- 
less skulls 
Glared  ghastily  upon  me. 

But  my  soul, 
From  sight  and  sense  of   the    polluting 

woe 
Of  tyranny,  had  long  learned  to  prefer 
Hell's    freedom    to    the     servitude    of 

heaven. 
Therefore  I  rose,  and  dauntlessly  began 
My  lonely  and  unending  pilgrimage, 
Resolved  to  wage  unweariable  war 
With  my  almighty  tyrant,  and  to  hurl 
Defiance  at  his  impotence  to  harm 
Beyond    the    curse    I    bore.      The   very 

hand 
That  barred  my  passage  to  the  peaceful 

grave 


52 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Has  crushed  the  earth  to  misery,  and 
given 

Its  empire  to  the  chosen  of  his  slaves. 

These  have  I  seen,  even  from  the  earliest 
dawn 

Of  weak,  unstable  and  precarious  power; 

Then  preaching  peace,  as  now  they  prac- 
tise war, 

So,  when  they  turned  but  from  the 
massacre 

Of  unoffending  infidels,  to  quench 

Their  thirst  for  ruin  in  the  very  blood 

That  flowed  in  their  own  veins,  and  piti- 
less zeal 

Froze  every  human  feeling,  as  the  wife 

Sheathed  in  her  husband's  heart  the 
sacred  steel, 

Even  whilst  its  hopes  were  dreaming  of 
her  love; 

And  friends  to  friends,  brothers  to 
brothers  stood 

Opposed  in  bloodiest  battle-field,  and 
war, 

Scarce  satiable  by  fate's  last  death- 
draught  waged, 

Drunk  from  the  winepress  of  the  Al- 
mighty's wrath; 

Whilst  the  red  cross,  in  mockery  of 
peace, 

Pointed  to  victory  !  When  the  fray  was 
done, 

No  remnant  of  the  exterminated  faith 

Survived  to  tell  its  ruin,  but  the  flesh, 

With  putrid  smoke  poisoning  the  at- 
mosphere, 

That  rotted  on  the  half-extinguished  pile. 

Yes !     I    have    seen    God's    worshippers 

unsheathe 
The    sword  of  his   revenge,  when  grace 

descended, 
Confirming  all  unnatural  impulses, 
To  sanctify  their  desolating  deeds; 
And  frantic  priests  waved  the  ill-omened 

cross 
O'er  the  unhappy  earth:   then  shone  the 

sun 
On  showers  of  gore  from  the  up  flashing 

steel 
Of  safe  assassination,  and  all  crime 
Made  stingless  by  the  spirits  of  the  Lord, 
And    blood-red    rainbows    canopied    the 

land. 


Spirit !  no  year  of  my  eventful  being 
Has     passed    unstained    by   crime    and 

misery, 
Which  flows  from  God's  own  faith.     I've 

marked  his  slaves 
With  tongues  whose  lies  are  venomous, 

beguile 
The  insensate  mob,  and,  whilst  one  hand 

was  red 
With  murder,  feign  to  stretch  the  other 

out 
For    brotherhood  and  peace;    and    that 

they  now 
Babble  of   love  and  mercy,  whilst  their 

deeds 
Are  marked  with  all  the  narrowness  and 

crime 
That  freedom's  young  arm  dare  not  yet 

chastise, 
Reason    may    claim  our    gratitude,  who 

now 
Establishing  the  imperishable  throne 
Of    truth,   and   stubborn  virtue,  maketh 

vain 
The  unprevailing  malice  of  my  foe, 
Whose  bootless  rage  heaps  torments  for 

the  brave, 
Adds  impotent  eternities  to  pain, 
Whilst  keenest  disappointment  racks  his 

breast 
To  see  the  smiles  of  peace  around  them 

play,  _ 

To  frustrate  or  to  sanctify  their  doom. 


Thus    have    I    stood,  —  through    a    wild 
waste  of  years 

Struggling     with     whirlwinds     of     mad 
agony, 

Yet    peaceful,     and    serene,     and    self- 
enshrined, 

Mocking  my  powerless  tyrant's  horrible 
curse 

With  stubborn  and  unalterable  will, 

Even    as    a   giant    oak,   which  heaven's 
fierce  flame 

Had  scathed  in  the  wilderness,  to  stand 

A  monument  of  fadeless  ruin  there; 

Yet  peacefully  and  movelessly  it  braves 

The  midnight  conflict  of  the  wintry  storm. 
As  in  the  sunlight's  calm  it  spreads 
Its  worn  and  withered  arms  on  high 

To  meet  the  quiet  of  a  summer's  noon. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


53 


The  Fairy  waved  her  wand : 
Ahasuerus  fled 
Fast  as  the  shapes  of  mingled  shade  and 

mist, 
That  lurk  in  the  glens  of  a  twilight  grove, 
Flee  from  the  morning  beam : 
The  matter  of  which  dreams  are  made 
Not  more  endowed  with  actual  life 
Than  this  phantasmal  portraiture 
Of  wandering  human  thought. 


VIII. 

The   present    and    the    past    thou    hast 

beheld : 
It  was   a   desolate   sight.     Now,  Spirit, 
learn 
The  secrets  of  the  future.  — Time  ! 
Unfold  the  brooding  pinion  of  thy  gloom, 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes, 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity*, 
Where  millions  lie   lulled  to  their   por- 
tioned sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  pass- 
ing things, 
Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud.  —  Spirit, 
behold' 
Thy  glorious  destiny ! 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came. 
Through  the  wide  rent  in  Time's  eternal 

veil, 
Hope    was    seen    beaming    through    the 
mists  of   fear : 
Earth  was  no  longer  hell; 
Love,  freedom,  health,  had  given 
Their    ripeness    to    the   manhood   of    its 
prime, 
And  all  its  pulses  beat 
Symphonious  to  the  planetary  spheres : 

Then  dulcet  music  swelled 
Concordant  with  the   life-strings  of  the 

soul; 
It  throbbed  in  sweet   and  languid  beat- 
ings there, 
Catching      new      life      from     transitory 

death,  — 
Like    the   vague   sighings   of  a   wind  at 

even, 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumber- 
ing sea 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 


And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by 
fits: 
Was  the  pure  stream  of  feeling 
That    sprung    from    these    sweet 
notes, 
And  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies 
With    mild    and    gentle    motion    calmly 
flowed. 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came, — 
Such  joy  as  when  a  lover  sees 
The  chosen  of  his  soul  in  happiness, 

And  witnesses  her  peace 
Whose   woe    to  him   were  bitterer  than 
death, 
Sees  her  unfaded  cheek 
Glow  mantling  in  first  luxury  of  health, 

Thrills  with  her  lovely  eyes, 
Which  like  two  stars  amid  the  heaving 
main 
Sparkle  through  liquid  bliss. 

Then    in    her    triumph    spoke  the  Fairy 

Queen  : 
I  will  not  call  the  ghost  of  ages  gone 
To  unfold  the  frightful  secrets  of  its  lore; 

The  present  now  is  past, 
And  those  events  that  desolate  the  earth 
Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  Time, 
Who  dares  not  give  reality  to  that 
Whose  being  I  annul.     To  me  is  given 
The    wonders    of    the    human    world    to 

keep, 
Space,  matter,  time,  and  mind.     Futurity 
Exposes  now  its  treasure;    let  the  sight 
Renew    and    strengthen    all    thy    failing 

hope. 
O  human  Spirit !  spur  thee  to  the  goal 
Where  virtue  fixes  universal  peace, 
And  midst  the  ebb  and  flow  of  human 

things, 
Show  somewhat  stable,  somewhat  certain 

still, 
A   lighthouse    o'er    the    wild   of    dreary 

waves. 

The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss; 
Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were 

hurled 
By    everlasting    snowstorms    round    the 

poles, 
Where  matter  dared  not  vegetate  or  live, 
But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 


54 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Bound  its  broad  zone  of  stillness,  are 
unloosed; 

And  fragrant  zephyrs  there  from  spicy 
isles 

Ruffle  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 

Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping 
sand, 

Whose  roar  is  wakened  into  echoings 
sweet 

To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breath- 
ing groves 

And  melodize  with  man's  blest  nature 
there. 

Those  deserts  of  immeasurable  sand, 
Whose      age-collected      fervors      scarce 

allowed 
A  bird  to  live,  a  blade  of  grass  to  spring, 
Where    the    shrill    chirp    of    the    green 

lizard's  love 
Broke  on  the  sultry  silentness  alone, 
Now  teem  with  countless  rills  and  shady 

woods, 
Cornfields  and  pastures  and   white  cot- 
tages; 
And  where  the  startled  wilderness  beheld 
A  savage  conqueror  stained  in  kindred 

blood, 
A  tigress  sating  with  the  flesh  of  lambs 
The    unnatural    famine  of    her  toothless 

cubs, 
Whilst  shouts  and  howlings  through  the 

desert  rang, 
Sloping  and  smooth  the  daisy-spangled 

lawn, 
Offering    sweet    incense  to    the  sunrise, 

smiles 
To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door, 
Sharing  his  morning's  meal 
With  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 
That  comes  to  lick  his  feet. 

Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many  a 
weary  sail 

Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain, 

Morning  on  night,  and  night  on  morning 
rise, 

Whilst  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer 
spread 

Its.  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun- 
bright  sea, 

Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest- 
waves 


So    long    have    mingled    with  the  gusty 

wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes, 
But   vocal    to    the    sea-bird's   harrowing 

shriek, 
The  bellowing  monster,  and  the  rushing 

storm, 
Now    to    the    sweet  and  many-mingling 

sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond. 
Those  lonely  realms  bright  garden-isles 

begem, 
With  lightsome  clouds  and   shining  seas 

between, 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss, 
Whilst  green  woods  overcanopy  the  wave, 
Which  like   a   toil-worn  laborer  leaps  to 

shore, 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  flowrets  there. 

All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life: 
The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her 

care, 
Rewarding  her   with   their  pure  perfect- 

ness: 
The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 
Her  virtues,  and  diffuse  them  all  abroad  : 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere, 
Glows  in  the  fruits,  and  mantles  on  the 

stream  : 
No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of 

heaven, 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  ever-verdant  trees; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair, 
And   autumn   proudly  bears    her  matron 

grace, 
Kindling    a  flush    on    the  fair  cheek  of 

spring, 
Whose  virgin  bloom   beneath  the  ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects  its  tint  and  blushes  into  love. 

The  lion  now  forgets  to  thirst  for  blood : 
There  might  you  see  him  sporting  in  the 

sun 
Beside  the  dreadless  kid;   his  claws  are 

sheathed, 
His  teeth    are  harmless,  custom's  force 

has  made 


QUEEN  MAB. 


55 


His  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  lamb. 
Like    passion's    fruit,    the    nightshade's 

tempting  bane 
Poisons  no  more  the  pleasure  it  bestows: 
All  bitterness  is  past;   the  cup  of  joy 
Unmingled  mantles  to  the  goblet's  brim, 
And  courts  the  thirsty  lips  it  fled  before. 

But   chief,  ambiguous  man,  he  that  can 

know 
More  misery,  and  dream  more  joy  than 

all; 
Whose  keen  sensations  thrill  within  his 

breast 
To  mingle  with  a  loftier  instinct  there, 
Lending  their  power  to   pleasure  and  to 

pain, 
Yet    raising,    sharpening,    and    refining 

each; 
Who  stands  amid  the  ever-varying  world, 
The  burthen  or  the  glory  of  the  earth; 
He  chief  perceives  the  change,  his  being 

notes 
The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 
Each  movement   of  its  progress  on  his 

mind. 

Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar 

night 
Lowers    o'er    the    snow-clad    rocks   and 

frozen  soil, 
Where    scarce    the    hardiest    herb    that 

braves  the  frost 
Basks  in  the  moonlight's  ineffectual  glow, 
Shrank   with    the   plants,  and  darkened 

with  the  night; 
His    chilled    and    narrow   energies,    his 

heart, 
Insensible  to  courage,  truth,  or  love, 
His  stunted  stature  and  imbecile  frame, 
Marked    him   for  some   abortion  of    the 

earth, 
Fit  compeer   of    the  bears    that  roamed 

around, 
Whose  habits  and  enjoyments  were  his 

own: 
His   life  a    feverish    dream  of    stagnant 

woe, 
Whose  meagre  wants    but    scantily  ful- 
filled, 
Apprized  him  ever  of  the  joyless  length 
Which    his   short  being's   wretchedness 

had  reached; 


His    death   a    pang  which  famine,  cold 

and  toil 
Long  on  the  mind,  whilst  yet  the  vital 

spark 
Clung    to    the     body    stubbornly,    had 

brought : 
All  was  inflicted  here  that  earth's  revenge 
Could  wreak  on  the  infringers  of  her  law; 
One  curse  alone  was  spared  —  the  name 

of  God. 

Nor  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms 

of  day 
With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and 

flame, 
Where  blue  mists  through  the  unmoving 

atmosphere 
Scattered  the    seeds    of   pestilence,  and 

fed 
Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land 
Teemed    with    all    earthquake,    tempest 

and  disease, 
Was  man  a  nobler  being;   slavery 
Had  crushed  him  to  his  country's  blood- 
stained dust; 
Or  he  was  bartered  for  the  fame  of  power, 
Which  all  internal  impulses  destroying, 
Makes  human  will  an  article  of  trade; 
Or  he  was  changed  with  Christians  for 

their  gold, 
And  dragged  to  distant  isles,  where  to 

the  sound 
Of  the  flesh-mangling  scourge,  he  does 

the  work 
Of  all-polluting  luxury  and  wealth, 
Which    doubly   visits    on    the    tyrants' 

heads 
The  long-protracted  fulness  of  their  woe; 
Or  he  was  led  to  legal  butchery, 
To  turn  to  worms  beneath  that   burning 

sun, 
Where    kings    first    leagued  against    the 

rights  of  men, 
And  priests  first  traded  with  the  name  of 

God. 

Even  where   the    milder    zone    afforded 

man 
A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there, 
Blighting    his   being    with    unnumbered 

ills, 
Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire;   nor  truth 

till  late 


56 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Availed  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 
That  peace  which  first   in  bloodless  vic- 
tory waved 
Her   snowy  standard    o'er    this    favored 

clime : 
There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of 

slaves, 
The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery, 
The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 
The    bloodhound    of    religion's    hungry 
zeal. 

Here  now  the  human  being  stands  adorn- 
ing 
This  loveliest  earth   with  taintless   body 

and  mind; 
Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  im- 
pulses, 
Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 
All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 
Him,  still  from   hope  to   hope   the  bliss 

pursuing 
Which     from     the  'exhaustless    lore    of 

human  weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts 

that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  that  mocks 
The  unprevailing  hoariness  of  age, 
And  man,  once  fleeting  o'er  the  transient 

scene 
Swift  as  an  unremembered  vision,  stands 
Immortal  upon  earth :   no  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the 

face, 
And  horribly  devours  his  mangled  flesh, 
Which,   still    avenging    nature's  broken 

law, 
Kindled  all  putrid  humors  in  his  frame, 
All  evil  passions,  and  all  vain  belief, 
Hatred,    despair,     and    loathing    in    his 

mind, 
The  germs  of  misery,  death,  disease,  and 

crime. 
No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 
That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing 

away, 
Flee  from  the  form  of  man;    but  gather 

round, 
And  prune  their  sunny   feathers   on  the 

hands 
Which  little  children   stretch  in  friendly 

sport 


Towards  these  dreadless  partners  of  their 

play. 
All  things  are  void  of  terror:   man  has 

lost 
His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 
An  equal  amidst  equals :   happiness 
And  science  dawn  though  late  upon  the 

earth; 
Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health  renovates 

the  frame; 
Disease    and   pleasure    cease   to   mingle 

here, 
Reason    and    passion    cease    to    combat 

there; 
Whilst   each    unfettered    o'er    the    earth 

extend 
Their  all-subduing  energies,  and  wield 
The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there; 
Whilst  every  shape  and  mode  of  matter 

lends 
Its  force  to  the  omnipotence  of  mind, 
Which  from  its  dark  mine  drags  the  gem 

of  truth 
To  decorate  its  paradise  of  peace. 


IX. 

O  HAPPY  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

To  which  those  restless  souls  that  cease- 
lessly 

Throng  through  the  human  universe, 
aspire ; 

Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope  ! 

Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly-working 
will  ! 

Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space 
and  time, 

Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  forever 
there : 

Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling- 
place  ! 

Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and 
crime, 

Languor,  disease,  and  ignorance  dare  not 
come : 

O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate 

dreams, 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness 
Haunting  the  human  heart,  have   there 

entwined 


QUEEN  MAB. 


57 


Those  rooted  hopes  of  some  sweet  place 

of  bliss 
Where   friends  and  lovers  meet  to  part 

no  more. 
Thou  art  the  end  of  all  desire  and  will, 
The  product  of  all  action;  and  the  souls 
That  by  the  paths  of  an  aspiring  change 
Have   reached   thy   haven    of    perpetual 

peace, 
There  rest  from  the  eternity  of  toil 
That   framed  the  fabric  of   thy  perfect- 

ness. 

Even  Time,  the  conqueror,   fled  thee  in 

his  fear; 
That  hoary  giant,  who,  in  lonely  pride, 
So  long  had  ruled  the  world,  that  nations 

fell 
Beneath  his  silent  footstep.     Pyramids, 
That  for  millenniums  had  withstood  the 

tide 
Of  human  things,  his  storm-breath  drove 

in  sand 
Across    that    desert    where    their    stones 

survived 
The    name    of    him    whose    pride    had 

heaped  them  there. 
Yon  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp, 
Was  but    the    mushroom    of    a    summer 

day, 
That    his    light-winged   footstep  pressed 

to  dust : 
Time  was  the   king  of  earth :   all  things 

gave  way 
Before  him.   but  the  fixed  and  virtuous 

will, 
The  sacred  sympathies  of  soul  and  sense, 
That  mocked  his  fury  and  prepared  his 

fall. 

Yet  slow  and  gradual  dawned  the  morn 

of  love; 
Long  lay  the  clouds  of  darkness  o'er  the 

scene, 
Till  from  its  native  heaven  they  rolled 

away: 
First,    crime   triumphant  o'er    all    hope 

careered 
Unblushing,     undisguising,      bold      and 

strong; 
Whilst    falsehood,     tricked    in    virtue's 

attributes, 
Long  sanctified  all  deeds  of  vice  and  woe, 


Till  done  by  her  own  venomous  sting  to 
death, 

She  left  the  moral  world  without  a  law, 

No  longer  fettering  passion's  fearless 
wing, 

Nor  searing  reason  with  the  brand  of 
God. 

Then  steadily  the  happy  ferment  worked; 

Reason  was  free;  and  wild  though  pas- 
sion went 

Through  tangled  glens  and  wood-em- 
bosomed meads, 

Gathering  a  garland  of  the  strangest 
flowers, 

Yet  like  the  bee  returning  to  her  queen, 

She  bound  the  sweetest  on  her  sister's 
brow, 

Who  meek  and  sober  kissed  the  sportive 
child, 

No  longer  trembling  at  the  broken  rod. 

Mild  was  the  slow  necessity  of  death: 
The    tranquil    spirit    failed    beneath    its 

grasp. 
Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear, 
Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land, 
And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 
The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 
Died  in  the  human  frame,  and  purity 
Blest  with  all  gifts  her  earthly  worship- 
pers. 
How  vigorous  then  the  athletic  form  of 

age  ! 
How  clear  its  open  and  unwrinkled  brow  ! 
Where  neither  avarice,    cunning,  pride, 

nor  care, 
Had  stamped  the  seal  of  gray  deformity 
On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time. 
How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth  ! 
Which  meek-eyed  courage  decked  with 

freshest  grace; 
Courage    of    soul,    that    dreaded    not    a 

name, 
And  elevated  will,  that  journeyed  on 
Through  life's  phantasmal  scene  in  fear- 
lessness, 
With  virtue,  love,  and  pleasure,  hand  in 
hand. 

Then,  that  sweet  bondage  which  is  free- 
dom's self, 
And  rivets  with  sensation's  softest  tie 
The  kindred  sympathies  of  human  souls, 


58 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Needed  no  fetters  of  tyrannic  law: 
Those  delicate  and  timid  impulses 
In  nature's  primal  modesty  arose, 
And    with    undoubted    confidence    dis- 
closed 
The    growing    longings    of    its    dawning 

love, 
Unchecked  by  dull  and  selfish  chastity, 
That  virtue  of  the  cheaply  virtuous, 
Who   pride   themselves   in   senselessness 

and  frost. 
No  longer  prostitution's  venomed  bane 
Poisoned    the  springs  of  happiness  &nd 

life; 
Woman  and  man,  in  confidence  and  love, 
Equal  and  free  and  pure  together  trod 
The  mountain-paths  of  virtue,  which  no 

more 
Were   stained  with  blood   from  many  a 
pilgrim's  feet. 

Then,  where,  through  distant  ages,  long 
in  pride 

The  palace  of  the  monarch-slave  had 
mocked 

Famine's  faint  groan,  and  penury's  silent 
tear, 

A  heap  of  crumbling  ruins  stood,  and 
threw 

Year  after  year  their  stones  upon  the  field, 

Wakening  a  lonely  echo;    and  the  leaves 

Of  the  old  thorn,  that  on  the  topmost 
tower 

Usurped  the  royal  ensign's  grandeur, 
shook 

In  the  stern  storm  that  swayed  the  top- 
most tower 

And  whispered  strange  tales  in  the  whirl- 
wind's ear. 

Low  through  the  lone  cathedral's  roof- 
less aisles 
The    melancholy    winds    a    death-dirge 

sung: 
It  were  a  sight  of  awfulness  to  see 
The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast, 
So  sumptuous,  yet  so  perishing  withal ! 
Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  its 

wall. 
A  thousand  mourners  deck  the  pomp  of 

death 
To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 
l'o  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 


Are  busy  of  its  life :   to-morrow,  worms 
In    silence    and    in  darkness  seize   their 
prey. 

Within    the    massy    prison's  mouldering 

courts, 
Fearless    and    free    the    ruddy    children 

played, 
Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent 

brows 
With  the    green  ivy  and   the  red  wall. 

flower, 
That    mock    the    dungeon's    unavailing 

gloom; 
The  ponderous  chains,  and  gratings  of 

strong  iron, 
There  rusted  amid  heaps  of  broken  stone 
That    mingled  slowly  with    their  native 

earth : 
There    the    broad  beam    of    day,  which 

feebly  once 
Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 
With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  then  freely 

shone 
On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness: 
No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse 

despair 
Pealed  through  the  echoing  vaults,  but 

soothing  notes 
Of  ivy-fingered  winds  and  gladsome  birds 
And  merriment  were  resonant  around. 

These  ruins  soon  left  not  a  wreck  behind: 
Their  elements,  wide  scattered  o'er  the 

globe, 
To    happier  shapes  were  moulded,    and 

became 
Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses: 
Thus  human  things  were  perfected,  and 

earth, 
Even    as    a    child    beneath   its  mother's 

love, 
Was  strengthened  in  all  excellence,  and 

grew 
Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er  the 

scene 
Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the  past 
Fades    from    our    charmed    sight.       My 

task  is  done : 
Thy  lore    is    learned.     Earth's  wonders 

are  thine  own, 


QUEEN  MAB. 


59 


With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they 

bring. 
My    spells   are    past :    the    present    now 

recurs. 
Ah  me  !   a  pathless  wilderness  remains 
Yet  unsubdued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 
Yet,    human     Spirit,    bravely    hold     thy 

course, 
Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 
The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change  : 
For  birth  and   life  and  death,   and  that 

strange  state 
Before   the    naked    soul    has    found    its 

home, 
All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  urge 
The    restless  wheels  of    being    on   their 

way, 
Whose    flashing    spokes,    instinct    with 

infinite  life, 
Bicker  and  burn  to  gain  their  destined 

goal : 
For  birth  but  wakes  the  spirit  to  the  sense 
Of  outward  shows,  whose  unexperienced 

shape 
New  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may 

lend;    • 
Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 
Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe; 
Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom, 
That  leads  to    azure  isles  and    beaming 

skies 
And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Therefore,  O  Spirit!   fearlessly  bear  on: 
Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose 

on  its  stalk, 
Though  frosts  may  blight  the  freshness 

of  its  bloom, 
Yet  spring's  awakening  breath  will  woo 

the  earth, 
To  feed  with  kindliest  dews  its  favorite 

flower, 
That  blooms  in  mossy  banks  and  dark- 
some glens, 
Lighting  the  green  wood  with  its  sunny 

smile. 

Fear  not  then,  Spirit,  death's  disrobing 

hand, 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake, 
So  welcome  when  the  bigot's  hell-torch 

burns; 
'T  is  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour, 


The  transient  gulph-dream  of  a  startling 

sleep. 
Death    is    no    foe    to  virtue :    earth    has 

seen 
Love's    brighest    roses    on    the    scaffold 

bloom, 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels 

there, 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are   there   not  hopes  within  thee,  which 

this  scene 
Of    linked  and    gradual    being  has  com 

firmed?     ^  ' 
Whose    stingings    bade    thy    heart    look 

further  still, 
When,  to  the  moonlight  walk  by  Henry 

led, 
Sweetly    and    sadly    thou    didst    talk    of 

death? 
And  wilt  thou  rudely  tear  them  from  thy 

breast, 
Listening  supinely  to  a  bigot's  creed, 
Or  tamely  crouching  to  the  tyrant's  rod, 
Whose  iron  thongs  are  red  with  human 

gore? 
Never:    but  bravely  bearing  on,  thy  will 
Is  destined^an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The    germs  of    misery  from  the    human 

heart. 
Thine    is  the    hand  whose    piety  would 

soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime, 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains, 
Watching    its   wanderings    as   a   friend's 

disease : 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would 

defy 
Its   fiercest    rage,  and   brave  its   sternest 

will, 
When   fenced    by   power   and   master  of 

the  world. 
Thou  art  sincere  and  good;    of  resolute 

mind, 
Free  from  heart-withering  custom's  cold 

control, 
Of  passim  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 
Earth's   pride   and    meanness   could  not 

vanquish  thee, 
And    therefore    art    thou    worthy  of  the 

boon 
Which    thou  hast  now  received :    virtue 

shall  keep 


6o 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Thy  footsteps  in  the  path  that  thou  hast 

trod, 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall 

bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  sacred  love. 
Go,  happy  one,  and  give  that  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile. 

The  Fairy  waves  her  wand  of  charm. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the   Spirit  mounts 
the  car, 
That  rolled  beside  the  battlement, 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 
Again    the     enchanted     steeds     were 

yoked, 
Again  the  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  heaven's  untrodden 
way. 
Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew : 
The  vast  and  fiery  globes  that  rolled 
Around  the  Fairy's  palace-gate 
Lessened     by     slow    degrees    and     soon 

appeared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 
That  there  attendant  on  the  solar  power 
With  borrowed  light  pursued  their  nar- 
rower way. 

Earth  floated  then  below: 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment  there; 
The  Spirit  then  descended : 
The  restless  coursers  pawed  the  ungenial 

soil, 
Snuffed    the    gross    air,   and  then,   their 

errand  done, 
Unfurled  their  pinions  to   the  winds  of 
heaven. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then, 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  Ianthe's  frame: 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed; 
Moveless  awhile  the   dark   blue   orbs  re- 
mained : 
She  looked   around   in   wonder    and   be- 
held 
Henry,    who   kneeled   in   silence  by  her 

couch, 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speech- 
less love, 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 


SHELLEY'S   NOTES. 

I.  — Page  30. 

The  sun' 's  unclouded  orb 
Rolled  through  the  black  concave. 

Beyond  our  atmosphere  the  sun  would 
appear  a  rayless  orb  of  fire  in  the  midst 
of  a  black  concave.  The  equal  diffusion 
of  its  light  on  earth  is  owing  to  the  re- 
fraction of  the  rays  by  the  atmosphere, 
and  their  reflection  from  other  bodies. 
Light  consists  either  of  vibrations  propa- 
gated through  a  subtle  medium,  or  of 
numerous  minute  particles  repelled  in  all 
directions  from  the  luminous  body.  Its 
velocity  greatly  exceeds  that  of  any  sub- 
stance with  which  we  are  acquainted : 
observations  on  the  eclipses  of  Jupiter's 
satellites  have  demonstrated  that  light 
takes  up  no  more  than  8'  7"  in  passing 
from  the  sun  to  the  earth,  a  distance  of 
95,000,000  miles.- — -Some  idea  maybe 
gained  of  the  immense  distance  of  the 
fixed  stars  when  it  is  computed  that  many 
years  would  elapse  before  light  could 
reach  this  earth  from  the  nearest  of 
them;  yet  in  one  year  light  travels  5,422,- 
400,000,000  miles,  which  is  a  distance 
5,707,600  times  greater  than  that  of  the 
sun  from  the  earth. 

I.  —  Page  30. 

Whilst  round  the  chariofs  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled. 

The'  plurality  of  worlds,  —  the  indefi- 
nite immensity  of  the  universe  is  a  most 
awful  subject  of  contemplation.  He  who 
rightly  feels  its  mystery  and  grandeui  is 
in  no  danger  of  seduction  from  the 
falsehoods  of  religious  systems,  or  of 
deifying  the  principle  of  the  universe. 
It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  the  Spirit 
that  pervades  this  infinite  machine  begat 
a  son  upon  the  body  of  a  Jewish  woman; 
or  is  angered  at  the  consequences  of  that 
necessity,  which  is  a  synonym  of  itself. 
All  that  miserable  tale  of  the  Devil,  and 
Eve,  and  an  Intercessor,  with  the  child- 
ish mummeries  of  the  God  of  the  Jews, 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


6 1 


is  irreconcilable  with  the  knowledge  of 
the  stars.  The  works  of  his  fingers  have 
borne  witness  against  him. 

The  nearest  of  the  fixed  stars  is  incon- 
ceivably distant  from  the  earth,  and  they 
are  probably  proportionally  distant  from 
each  other.  By  a  calculation  of  the 
velocity  of  light,  Sirius  is  supposed  to  be 
at  least  54,224,000,000,000  miles  from 
the  earth.1  That  which  appears  only  like 
a  thin  and  silvery  cloud  streaking  the 
heaven  is  in  effect  composed  of  innumer- 
able clusters  of  suns,  each  shining  with 
its  own  light,  and  illuminating  numbers 
of  planets  that  revolve  around  them. 
Millions  and  millions  of  suns  are  ranged 
around  us,  all  attended  by  innumerable 
worlds,  yet  calm,  regular,  and  harmoni- 
ous, all  keeping  the  paths  of  immutable 
necessity. 


IV. 


Page  40. 


These  are  the  hired  bravos  zvho  defend 
The  tyranfs  throne. 

To  employ  murder  as  a  means  of  jus- 
tice is  an  idea  which  a  man  of  an  enlight- 
ened mind  will  not  dwell  upon  with 
pleasure.  To  march  forth  in  rank  and 
file,  and  all  the  pomp  of  streamers  and 
trumpets,  for  the  purpose  of  shooting  at 
our  fellowmen  as  a  mark;  to  inflict  upon 
them  all  the  variety  of  wound  and  anguish  ; 
to  leave  them  weltering  in  their  blood; 
to  wander  over  the  field  of  desolation, 
and  count  the  number  of  the  dying  and 
the  dead,  —  are  employments  which  in 
thesis  we  may  maintain  to  be  necessary, 
but  which  no  good  man  will  contem- 
plate with  gratulation  and  delight.  A 
battle  we  suppose  is  won  :  —  thus  truth 
is  established,  thus  the  cause  of  jus- 
tice is  confirmed  !  It  surely  requires  no 
common  sagacity  to  discern  the  connec- 
tion between  this  immense  heap  of  ca- 
lamities and  the  assertion  of  truth  or  the 
maintenance  of  justice. 

"  Kings,  and  ministers  of  state,  the  real 
authors  of  the  calamity,  sit  unmolested  in 
tneir  cabinet,  while  those  against  whom 
the  fury  of  the  storm  is  directed   are,  for 

1  See  Nicholson's  Eticyclopedia,  art.  Light. 


the  most  part,  persons  who  have  been 
trepanned  into  the  service,  or  who  are 
dragged  unwillingly  from  their  peaceful 
homes  into  the  field  of  battle.  A  soldier 
is  a  man  whose  business  it  is  to  kill  those 
who  never  offended  him,  and  who  are  the 
innocent  martyrs  of  other  men's  iniqui- 
ties. Whatever  may  become  of  the  ab- 
stract question  of  the  justifiableness  of 
war,  it  seems  impossible  that  the  soldier 
should  not  be  a  depraved  and  unnatural 
being. 

' '  To  these  more  serious  and  momentous 
considerations  it  may  be  proper  to  add  a 
recollection  of  the  ridiculousness  of  the 
military  character.  Its  first  constituent  is 
obedience  :  a  soldier  is,  of  all  descriptions 
of  men,  the  most  completely  a  machine; 
yet  his  profession  inevitably  teaches  him 
something  of  dogmatism,  swaggering,  and 
self-consequence :  he  is  like  the  puppet 
of  a  showman,  who,  at  the  very  time  he 
is  made  to  strut  and  swell  and  display 
the  most  farcical  airs,  we  perfectly  know 
cannot  assume  the  most  insignificant  ges- 
ture, advance  either  to  the  right  or  the 
left,  but  as  he  is  moved  by  his  exhibitor." 
—  Godwin's  Enqtiirer,  Essay  v. 

I  will  here  subjoin  a  little  poem,  so 
strongly  expressive  of  my  abhorrence  of 
despotism  and  falsehood,  that  I  fear  lest 
it  never  again  may  be  depictured  so  viv- 
idly. This  opportunity  is  perhaps  the 
only  one  that  ever  will  occur  of  rescuing 
it  from  oblivion. 


FALSEHOOD   AND   VICE. 
A  DIALOGUE. 

Whilst  monarchs    laughed  upon    their 

thrones 
To  hear  a  famished  nation's  groans, 
And  hugged  the  wealth  wrung  from  the 

woe 
That  makes  its  eyes  and  veins  o'erflow,  — - 
Those  thrones,  high  built  upon  the  heaps 
Of  bones  where  frenzied  Famine  sleeps, 
Where  Slavery  wields  her  scourge  of  iron, 
Red  with  mankind's  unheeded  gore, 
And  war's  mad  fiends  the  scene  environ, 
Mingling  with  shrieks  a  drunken  roar, 


62 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


Theie    Vice    and    Falsehood  took   their 

stand, 
High  raised  above  the  unhappy  land. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother  !  arise  from  the  dainty  fare, 
Which  thousands  have  toiled  and  bled  to 

bestow ; 
A  finer  feast  for  thy  hungry  ear 
Is  the  news  that  I  bring  of  human  woe. 


And,  secret  one,  what  hast  thou  done, 
To  compare,  in  thy  tumid  pride,  with  me  ? 
I,  whose  career,  through  the  blasted  year, 
Has  been  tracked  by  despair  and  agony. 

FALSEHOOD. 

What  have  I  done  ! 1  have  torn  the 

robe 
From  baby  Truth's  unsheltered  form, 
And  round  the  desolated  globe 
Borne  safely  the  bewildering  charm : 
My  tyrant-slaves  to  a  dungeon-floor 
Have  bound  the  fearless  innocent, 
And  streams  of  fertilizing  gore 
Flow  from  her  bosom's  hideous  rent, 
Which  this  unfailing  dagger  gave.  — 
I  dread  that  blood  !  —  no  more  —  this  day 
Is  ours,  though  her  eternal  ray 

Must  shine  upon  our  grave. 
Yet  know,  proud  Vice,  had  I  not  given 
To  thee  the  rube  I  stole  from  heaven, 
Thy  shape  of   ugliness  and  fear 
Had  never  gained  admission  here. 


And  know,  that  had  I  disdained  to  toil, 
But  sate  in  my  loathsome  cave  the  while, 
And  ne'er  to  these  hateful  sons  of  heaven 
GOLD,  MONARCHY,  and  MURDER, 

given; 
Hadst  thou  with  all  thine  art  essayed 
One  of  thy  games  then  to  have  played, 
With  all  thine  overweening  boast, 
Falsehood  !    I  tell  thee  thou  hadst  lost !  — 
Vet  wherefore  this  dispute?  — we  tend, 
Fraternal,  to  one  common  end; 
In  this  cold  grave  beneath  my  feet, 


Will  our  hopes,  our  fears,  and  our  labors, 
meet. 

FALSEHOOD. 

I  brought  my  daughter,  RELIGION,  on 

earth : 
She  smothered   Reason's  babes  in  their 

birth; 
But  dreaded  their  mother's  eye  severe,  — 
So  the  crocodile  slunk  off  slyly  in  fear, 
And    loosed    her  bloodhounds  from  the 

den.   .   .   . 
They  started  from  dreams  of  slaughtered 

men, 
And,  by  the  light  of  her  poison  eye, 
Did  her  work  o'er  the  wide  earth  fright- 
fully: 
The  dreadful  stench  of  her  torches'  flare, 
Fed  with  human  fat,  polluted  the  air : 
The  curses,  the  shrieks,  the  ceaseless  cries 
Of  the  many-mingling  miseries, 
As  on  she  trod,  ascended  high 
And  trumpeted  my  victory  !  — 
Brother,  tell  what  thou  hast  done. 


I  have  extinguished  the  noonday  sun, 
In  the  carnage-smoke  of  battles  won: 
Famine,  murder,  hell  and  power 
Were  glutted  in  that  glorious  hour 
Which  searchless  fate  had  stamped  forme 
With  the  seal  of  her  security.   .   .   . 
For  the  bloated  wretch  on  yonder  throne 
Commanded  the  bloody  fray  to  rise. 
Like  me  he  joyed  at  the  stifled  moan 
Wrung  from  a  nation's  miseries; 
While  the  snakes,  whose  slime  even  him 

defiled, 
In  ecstasies  of  malice  smiled: 
They  thought    'twas  theirs, — but    mine 

the  deed ! 
Theirs  is  the  toil,  but  mine  the  meed  — 
Ten  thousand  victims  madly  bleed. 
They  dream  that  tyrants  goad  them  there 
With  poisonous  war  to  taint  the  air: 
These  tyrants,  on  their  beds  of  thorn, 
Swell    with   the    thoughts   of    murderous 

fame, 
And  with  their  gains  to  lift  my  name 
Restless  they  plan  from  night  to  morn: 
I  —  I  do  all;    without  my  aid 


iXOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


65 


Thy  daughter,  that  relentless  maid, 
Could  never  o'er  a  death-bed  urge 
The  fury  of  her  venomed  scourge. 


FALSEHOOD. 

Brother,  well:  — the  world  is  ours; 
And  whether  thou  or  I  have  won, 
The  pestilence  expectant  lours 
On  all  beneath  yon  blasted  sun. 
Our  joys,  our  toils,  our  honors  meet 
In   the   milk-white  and   wormy  winding- 
sheet  : 
A  short-lived  hope,  unceasing  care, 
Some  heartless  scraps  of  godly  prayer, 
A  moody  curse,  and  a  frenzied  sleep 
Ere  gapes  the  grave's  unclosing  deep, 
A  tyrant's  dream,  a  coward's  start, 
The  ice  that  clings  to  a  priestly  heart, 
A  judge's  frown,  a  courtier's  smile, 
Make  the  great  whole  for  which  we  toil; 
And,  brother,  whether  thou  or  I 
Have  done  the  work  of  misery, 
It  little  boots:    thy  toil  and  pain, 
Without  my  aid,  were  more  than  vain; 
And  but  for  thee  I  ne'er  had  sate 
The  guardian  of  heaven's  palace  gate. 

V.  — Page  41. 

Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 

Go  to  the  grave,  and  issue  from  the  -womb. 

One  generation  passeth  away  and  an- 
other  generation  cometh,  but  the  earth 
abideth   for  ever.     The  sun  also  ariseth 
and  the  sun  goeth  down,  and  hasteth  to 
his    place    where    he    arose.     The    wind 
goeth  toward  the  south  and  turneth  about 
unto  the  north,  it  whirleth  about  continu-  j 
ally,  and  the  wind  returneth  again  accord-   i 
ing  to  his  circuits.      All  the  rivers  run  into 
the  sea,  yet  the  sea  is  not   full;    unto  the 
place    whence    the    rivers   come,    thither   j 
shall    they    return    again.  —  Ecclesiastes,   \ 
chap.  i.  4-7. 


V.  —  Page  41. 

Even  as  the  leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning 

year 
Has  scattered  on  the  forest  soil. 


Olrj  Trip  <pb?.Xu)v  yivffi,  roirjSe  Kai  avAp&v. 

0*  v?.r, 
TiiXiOuitioa  <!>va,  capog  <5'  firiyiyvtrai  uprj  ' 
"J2$  av6ou>v  ytvtri,  f]  fiiv  <pifi,  fj6'  a-noXfiyti. 

IAIAA.    Z,    1.    14G. 

V.  —  Page  42. 

The  7)iob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests,  and 

kings. 

Suave   mari   magno   turbantibus    aequo  ra 

vent  is 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  spectare  labo- 

rem; 
Non  quia  vexari  quemquam    'st  jucunda 

voluptas, 
Sed  quibus  ipse  malis  careas  quia  cernere 

suave  'st. 
Suave  etiam  belli  certamina  magna  tueri, 
Per    campos    instructa,    tua    sine    parte 

pericli; 
Sed   nil   dulcius    est" bene  quam  munita 

tenere 
Edita  doctrina  sapientum  templa  serena; 
Despicere    unde    queas  alios,   passimque 

videre 
Errare  atque  viam  palanteis  quaerere  vitae; 
Certare  ingenio;    contendere  nobilitate; 
Nocteis  atque  dies  niti  praestante  labore 
Ad    summas    emergere    opes,    rerumque 

potiri. 
O  miseras  hominum  menteis !  O  pectora 

caeca!  Luc.  lib.  ii.  1-14. 

V.  —  Page  43. 

A?id  statesmen  boast 
Of  wealth  ! 

There  is  no  real  wealth  but  the  labor 
of  man.  Were  the  mountains  of  gold 
and  the  valleys  of  silver,  the  world  would 
not  be  one  grain  of  corn  the  richer;  no 
one  comfort  would  be  added  to  the  hu- 
man race.  In  consequence  of  our  con- 
sideration for  ftie  precious  metals,  one 
man  is  enabled  to  heap  to  himself  luxu- 
ries at  the  expense  of  the  necessaries  of 
his  neighbor;  a  system  admirably  fitted 
to  produce  all  the  varieties  of  disease 
and  crime,  which  never  fail  to  character- 
ize the  two  extremes  of  opulence  and 
penury.      A    speculator    takes    pride    to 


64 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


himself  as  the  promoter  of  his  country's 
prosperity,  who  employs  a  number  of 
hands  in  the  manufacture  of  articles 
avowedly  destitute  of  use,  or  subser- 
vient only  to  the  unhallowed  cravings  of 
luxury  and  ostentation.  The  nobleman, 
who  employs  the  peasants  of  his  neigh- 
borhood in  building  his  palaces,  until 
"jam  pauca  aratro  jugera  regies  moles 
relinquunt"  flatters  himself  that  he  has 
gained  the  title  of  a  patriot  by  yielding 
to  the  impulses  of  vanity.  The  show 
and  pomp  of  courts  adduce  the  same 
apology  for  its  continuance;  and  many 
a  fete  has  been  given,  many  a  woman 
has  eclipsed  her  beauty  by  her  dress,  to 
benefit  the  laboring  poor  and  to  encour- 
age trade.  Who  does  not  see  that  this 
is  a  remedy  which  aggravates,  whilst  it 
palliates  the  countless  diseases  of  society? 
The  poor  are  set  to  labor,  —  for  what? 
Not  the  food  for  which  they  famish :  not 
the  blankets  for  want  of  which  their 
babes  are  frozen  by  the  cold  of  their  mis- 
erable hovels  :  not  those  comforts  of  civ- 
ilization without  which  civilized  man  is  far 
more  miserable  than  the  meanest  savage; 
oppressed  as  he  is  by  all  its  insidious 
evils,  within  the  daily  and  taunting  pros- 
pect of  its  innumerable  benefits  assidu- 
ously exhibited  before  him: — no;  for 
the  pride  of  power,  for  the  miserable 
isolation  of  pride,  for  the  false  pleasures 
of  the  hundredth  part  of  society.  No 
greater  evidence  is  afforded  of  the  wide 
extended  and  radical  mistakes  of  civil- 
ized man  than  this  fact:  those  arts  which 
are  essential  to  his  very  being  are  held 
in  the  greatest  contempt;  employments 
are  lucrative  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  their 
usefulness:1  the  jeweller,  the  toyman, 
the  actor  gains  fame  and  wealth  by  the 
exercise  of  his  useless  and  ridiculous 
art;  whilst  the  cultivator  of  the  earth,  he 
without  whom  society  must  cease  to  sub- 
sist, struggles  through  contempt  and  pen- 
ury, and  perishes  by  that  famine  which 
but  for  his  unceasing  exertions  would 
annihilate  the  rest  of   mankind. 

I  will  not  insult  common  sense   by  in- 

1  See    Rousseau,    De  r Inlgaliti    parmi    les 
Homtnes,   note   7. 


sisting  on  the  doctrine  of  the  natural 
equality  of  man.  The  question  is  not 
concerning  its  desirableness,  but  its  prac- 
ticability: so  far  as  it  is  practicable,  it  is 
desirable.  That  state  of  human  society 
which  approaches  nearer  to  an  equal 
partition  of  its  benefits  and  evils  should, 
cateris  paribus,  be  preferred :  but  so 
long  as  we  conceive  that  a  wanton  ex- 
penditure of  human  labor,  not  for  the 
necessities,  not  even  for  the  luxuries  of 
the  mass  of  society,  but  for  the  egotism 
and  ostentation  of  a  few  of  its  mem- 
bers, is  defensible  on  the  ground  of  pub- 
lic justice,  so  long  we  neglect  to  ap- 
proximate to  the  redemption  of  the 
human  race. 

Labor  is  required  for  physical,  and 
leisure  for  moral  improvement :  from  the 
former  of  these  advantages  the  rich,  and 
from  the  latter  the  poor,  by  the  inevita- 
ble conditions  of  their  respective  situ- 
ations, are  precluded.  A  state  which 
should  combine  the  advantages  of  both 
would  be  subjected  to  the  evils  of 
neither.  He  that  is  deficient  in  firm 
health,  or  vigorous  intellect,  is  but  half 
a  man :  hence  it  follows  that  to  subject 
the  laboring  classes  to  unnecessary  la- 
bor is  wantonly  depriving  them  of  any 
opportunities  of  intellectual  improve- 
ment; and  that  the  rich  are  heaping  up 
for  their  own  mischief  the  disease,  lassi- 
tude, and  ennui  by  which  their  existence 
is  rendered  an  intolerable  burden. 

English  reformers  exclaim  against  sin- 
ecures,—  but  the  true  pension  list  is 
the  rent-roll  of  the  landed  proprietors : 
wealth  is  a  power  usurped  by  the  few, 
to  compel  the  many  to  labor  for  their 
benefit.  The  laws  which  support  this 
system  derive  their  force  from  the  igno- 
rance and  credulity  of  its  victims:  they 
are  the  result  of  a  conspiracy  of  the  few 
against  the  many,  who  are  themselves 
obliged  to  purchase  this  pre-eminence 
by  the  loss  of   all  real  comfort. 

"  The  commodities  that  substantially 
contribute  to  the  subsistence  of  the' 
human  species  form  a  very  short  cata- 
logue: they  demand  from  us  but  a  slen- 
der portion  of  industry.  If  these  only 
were     produced,    and     sufficiently     pro- 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


duced,  the  species  of  man  would  be 
continued.       If    the     labor     necessarily 

required  to  produce  them  were  equi- 
tably divided  among  the  poor,  and,  still 
more,  if  it  were  equitably  divided  among 
all,  each  man's  share  of  labor  would  be 
light,  and  his  portion  of  leisure  would 
be  ample.  There  was  a  time  when  this 
leisure  would  have  been  of  small  com- 
parative value :  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
time  will  come  when  it  will  be  applied 
to  the  most  important  purposes.  Those 
hours  which  are  not  required  for  the 
production  of  the  necessaries  of  life 
may  be  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  the 
understanding,  the  enlarging  our  stock 
of  knowledge,  the  refining  our  taste,  and 
thus  opening  to  us  new  and  more  ex- 
quisite sources  of  enjoyment. 

"  It  was  perhaps  necessary  that  a 
period  of  monopoly  and  oppression 
should  subsist,  before  a  period  of  culti- 
vated equality  could  subsist.  Savages 
perhaps  would  never  have  been  excited 
to  the  discovery  of  truth  and  the  inven- 
tion of  art  but  by  the  narrow  motives 
which  such  a  period  affords.  But  surely, 
after  the  savage  state  has  ceased,  and 
men  have  set  out  in  the  glorious  career 
of  discovery  and  invention,  monopoly 
and  oppression  cannot  be  necessary  to 
prevent  them  from  returning  to  a  state 
of  barbarism.'*  —  Godwin's  Enquirer, 
Essay  ii.  See  also  Political  Justice,  book 
VIII.    chap.    ii. 

It  is  a  calculation  of  this  admirable 
author,  that  all  the  conveniences  of  civ- 
ilized life  might  be  produced,  if  society 
would  divide  the  labor  equally  among 
its  members,  by  each  individual  being 
employed  in  labor  two  hours  during  the 
day. 


V. 


Page  43. 


or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad. 

I  am  acquainted  with  a  lady  of  con- 
siderable accomplishments,  and  the 
mother  of  a  numerous  family,  whom 
the    Christian    religion    has    goaded     to 


incurable  insanity.      A   parallel    case    is. 
I  believe,  within  the  experience  of  every 

physician. 

Nam  jam  saepe  homines  patriarn,  carosque 

parentes 
Prodiderunt,     vitare     Acherusia    templa 

petentes. 

Lucretius,  hi.,  85. 

V.  —  Page  44. 
Even  love  is  sold. 

Not  even  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes 
is  exempt  from  the  despotism  of  posi- 
tive institution.  Law  pretends  even  to 
govern  the  indisciplinable  wanderings  of 
passion,  to  put  fetters  on  the  clearest 
deductions  of  reason,  and,  by  appeals 
to  the  will,  to  subdue  the  involuntary 
affections  of  our  nature.  Love  is  inevi- 
tably consequent  upon  the  perception 
of  loveliness.  Love  withers  under  con- 
straint:  its  very  essence  is  liberty:  it  is 
compatible  neither  with  obedience,  jeal- 
ousy, nor  fear:  it  is  there  most  pure, 
perfect,  and  unlimited,  where  its  votaries 
live  in  confidence,  equality,  and  un- 
reserve. 

How  long  then  ought  the  sexual  con- 
nection to  last?  what  law  ought  to 
specify  the  extent  of  the  grievances 
which  should  limit  its  duration?  A  hus- 
band and  wife  ought  to  continue  so  long 
united  as  they  love  each  other :  any  law 
which  should  bind  them  to  cohabitation 
for  one  moment  after  the  decay  of  their 
affection  would  be  a  most  intolerable 
tyranny,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  tol- 
eration. I  low  odious  an  usurpation  of 
the  right  of  private  judgment  should  that 
law  be  considered  which  should  make 
the  ties  of  friendship  indissoluble,  in 
spite  of  the  caprices,  the  inconstancy, 
the  fallibility,  and  capacity  for  improve- 
ment of  the  human  mind.  And  by  so 
much  would  the  fetters  of  love  be 
heavier  and  more  unendurable  than 
those  of  friendship,  as  love  is  more 
vehement  and  capricious,  more  depend- 
ent on  those  delicate  peculiarities  of 
imagination,  and  less  capable  of  reduc- 
tion to  the  ostensible  merits  of  the  object. 


66 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


The  state  of  society  in  which  we  exist 
is  a  mixture  of  feudal  savageness  and 
imperfect  civilization.  The  narrow  and  | 
unenlightened  morality  of  the  Christian 
religion  is  an  aggravation  of  these  evils. 
It  is  not  even  until  lately  that  mankind 
have  admitted  that  happiness  is  the  sole 
end  of  the  science  of  ethics,  as  of  all 
other  sciences;  and  that  the  fanatical 
idea  of  mortifying  the  flesh  for  the  love 
of  God  has  been  discarded.  I  have 
heard,  indeed,  an  ignorant  collegian  ad- 
duce, in  favor  of  Christianity,  its  hostil- 
ity to  every  worldly  feeling  !  l 

But  if  happiness  be  the  object  of  mo- 
rality, of  all  human  unions  and  disunions; 
if  the  worthiness  of  every  action  is  to  be 
estimated  by  the  quantity  of  pleasurable 
sensation  it  is  calculated  to  produce, 
then  the  connection  of  the  sexes  is  so 
long  sacred  as  it  contributes  to  the  com- 
fort of  the  parties,  and  is  naturally  dis- 
solved when  its  evils  are  greater  than  its 
benefits.  There  is  nothing  immoral  in 
this  separation.  Constancy  has  nothing 
virtuous  in  itself,  independently  of  the 
pleasure  it  confers,  and  partakes  of  the 
temporizing  spirit  of  vice  in  proportion 
as  it  endures  tamely  moral  defects  of 
magnitude  in  the  object  of  its  indiscreet 
choice.  Love  is  free:  to  promise  for- 
ever to  love  the  same  woman  is  not  less 
absurd  than  to  promise  to  believe  the 
same  creed:  such  a  vow,  in  both  cases, 
excludes  us  from  all  inquiry.  The  lan- 
guage of  the  votarist  is  this:  The  woman 
I  now  love  may  be  infinitely  inferior  to 
many  others;  the  creed  I  now  profess 
may  be  a  mass  of  errors  and  absurdities; 
but  I  exclude  myself  from  all  future  in- 
formation as  to  the  amiability  of  the  one 
and   the    truth    of    the    other,    resolving 


1  The  first  Christian  emperor  made  a  law  by 
which  seduction  was  punished  with  death;  if 
the  female  pleaded  her  own  consent,  she  was 
also  punished  with  death;  if  the  parents  en- 
deavored  to  screen  the  criminals,  they  were  ban- 
ished and  their  estates  were  confiscated ;  the 
slaves  who  might  be  accessory  were  burned  alive, 
or  forced  to  swallow  melted  lead.  The  very  off- 
spring of  an  ill  gal  love  were  involved  in  the 
consequences  of  the  sentence.  —  Cibbon  s  De- 
cline and  Fall,  etc.  vol.  ii.  ]).  210.  See  also,  for 
the  hatred  of  the  primitive  Christians  to  love 
and  even  marriage,  u.  s^<a. 


blindly,  and  in  spite  of  conviction,  to 
adhere  to  them.  Is  this  the  language  of 
delicacy  and  reason?  Is  the  love  of 
such  a  frigid  heart  of  more  worth  than 
its  belief? 

The  present  system  of  constraint  docs 
no  more,  in  the  majority  of  instances, 
than  make  hypocrites  or  open  enemies. 
Persons  of  delicacy  and  virtue,  unhappily 
united  to  one  whom  they  find  it  impos- 
sible to  love,  spend  the  loveliest  season 
of  their  life  in  unproductive  efforts  to 
appear  otherwise  than  they  are,  for  the 
sake  of  the  feelings  of  their  partner  or 
the  welfare  of  their  mutual  offspring: 
those  of  less  generosity  and  refinement 
openly  avow  their  disappointment,  and 
linger  out  the  remnant  of  that  union, 
which  only  death  can  dissolve,  in  a  state 
of  incurable  bickering  and  hostility.  The 
early  education  of  their  children  takes  its 
color  from  the  squabbles  of  the  parents; 
they  are  nursed  in  a  systematic  school  of 
ill-humor,  violence,  and  falsehood.  Had 
they  been  suffered  to  part  at  the  moment 
when  indifference  rendered  their  union 
irksome,  they  would  have  been  spared 
many  years  of  misery :  they  would  have 
connected  themselves  more  suitably,  and 
would  have  found  that  happiness  in  the 
society  of  more  congenial  partners  which 
is  forever  denied  them  by  the  despotism 
of  marriage.  They  would  have  been  sep- 
arately useful  and  happy  members  of  soci- 
ety, who,  whilst  united,  were  miserable 
and  rendered  misanthropical  by  misery. 
The  conviction  that  wedlock  is  indissolu- 
ble holds  out  the  strongest  of  all  tempta- 
tions to  the  perverse  :  they  indulge  without 
restraint  in  acrimony,  and  all  the  little 
tyrannies  of  domestic  life,  when  they 
know  that  their  victim  is  without  appeal. 
If  this  connection  were  put  on  a  rational 
basis,  each  would  be  assured  that  habit- 
ual ill-temper  would  terminate  in  separa- 
tion, and  would  check  this  vicious  and 
dangerous  propensity. 

Prostitution  is  the  legitimate  offspring 
of  marriage  and  its  accompanying  errors. 
Women,  for  no  other  crime  than  having 
followed  the  dictates  of  a  natural  appe- 
tite, are  driven  with  fury  from  the  com- 
forts and  sympathies  of  society.     It  is  less 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN   MAS. 


67 


venial  than  murder;  and  the  punishment 
which  is  inflicted  on  her  who  destroys 
her  child  to  escape  reproach  is  lighter 
than  the  life  of  agony  and  disease  to 
which  the  prostitute  is  irrecoverably 
doomed.  lias  a  woman  obeyed  the 
impulse  of  unerring  nature;  —  society  de- 
clares war  against  her,  pitiless  and  eternal 
war:  she  must  be  the  tame  slave,  she 
must  make  no  reprisals;  theirs  is  the 
right  of  persecution,  hers  the  duty  of 
endurance.  She  lives  a  life  of  infamy: 
the  loud  and  bitter  laugh  of  scorn  scares 
her  from  all  return.  She  dies  of  long 
and  lingering  disease;  yet  she  is  in  fault, 
she  is  the  criminal,  she  the  froward  and 
untamable  child,  —  and  society,  forsooth, 
the  pure  and  virtuous  matron,  who  casts 
her  as  an  abortion  from  her  undefiled 
bosom  !  Society  avenges  herself  on  the 
criminals  of  her  own  creation;  she  is 
employed  in  anathematizing  the  vice  to- 
day, which  yesterday  she  was  the  most 
zealous  to  teach.  Thus  is  formed  one- 
tenth  of  the  population  of  London :  mean- 
while the  evil  is  twofold.  Young  men, 
excluded  by  the  fanatical  idea  of  chastity 
from  the  society  of  modest  and  accom- 
plished women,  associate  with  these 
vicious  and  miserable  beings,  destroying 
thereby  all  those  exquisite  and  delicate 
sensibilities  whose  existence  cold-hearted 
worldlings  have  denied;  annihilating  all 
genuine  passion,  and  debasing  that  to  a 
selfish  feeling  which  is  the  excess  of  gen- 
erosity and  devotedness.  Their  body  and 
mind  alike  crumble  into  a  hideous  wreck 
of  humanity;  idiocy  and  disease  become 
perpetuated  in  their  miserable  offspring, 
and  distant  generations  suffer  for  the  big- 
oted morality  of  their  forefathers.  Chastity 
is  a  monkish  and  evangelical  superstition, 
a  greater  foe  to  natural  temperance  even 
than  unintellectual  sensuality;  it  strikes 
at  the  root  of  all  domestic  happiness,  and 
consigns  more  than  half  of  the  human  race 
to  misery,  that  some  few  may  monopolize 
according  to  law.  A  system  could  not  well 
have  been  devised  more  studiously  hostile 
to  human  happiness  than  marringe. 

I  conceive  that  from  the  abolition  of 
marriage,  the  fit  and  natural  arrangement 
of  sexual  connection  would  result.     I  by 


no  means  assert  that  the  intercourse  would 
be  promiscuous :  on  the  contrary,  it  ap- 
pears, from  the  relation  of  parent  to  child, 
that  this  union  is  generally  of  long  dura- 
tion, and  marked  above  all  others  with 
generosity  and  self-devotion.  But  this  is 
a  subject  which  it  is  perhaps  premature 
to  discuss.  That  which  will  result  from 
the  abolition  of  marriage  will  be  natural 
and  right;  because  choice  and  change  will 
be  exempted  from  restraint. 

In  fact,  religion  and  morality,  as  they 
now  stand,  compose  a  practical  code  of 
misery  and  servitude  :  the  genius  of  human 
happiness  must  tear  every  leaf  from  the 
accursed  book  of  God  ere  man  can  read 
the  inscription  on  his  heart.  How  would 
morality,  dressed  up  in  stiff  stays  and 
finery,  start  from  her  own  disgusting  image 
should  she  look  in  the  mirror  of  nature  ! 

VI.  — Page  46. 

To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 
That  faintly  twinkles  there. 

The  north  polar  star,  to  which  the  axis  of 
the  earth,  in  its  present  state  of  obliquity, 
points.  It  is  exceedingly  probable,  from 
many  considerations,  that  this  obliquity 
will  gradually  diminish,  until  the  equator 
coincides  with  the  ecliptic:  the  nights 
and  days  will  then  become  equal  on  the 
earth  throughout  the  year,  and  probably 
the  seasons  also.  There  is  no  great  ex- 
travagance in  presuming  that  the  progress 
of  the  perpendicularity  of  the  poles  may 
be  as  rapid  as  the  progress  of  intellect; 
or  that  there  should  be  a  perfect  identity 
between  the  moral  and  physical  improve- 
ment of  the  human  species.  It  is  certain 
that  wisdom  is  not  compatible  with  dis- 
ease, and  that,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
climates  of  the  earth,  health,  in  the  true 
and  comprehensive  sense  of  the  word,  is 
out  of  the  reach  of  civilized  man.  As- 
tronomy teaches  us  that  the  earth  is  now 
in  its  progress,  and  that  the  poles  are 
every  year  becoming  more  and  more  per- 
pendicular to  the  ecliptic.  The  strong 
evidence  afforded  by  the  history  of  my- 
thology, and  geological  researches,  that 
some  event  of  this  nature  has  taken  place 


NOTES   TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


already,  affords  a  strong  presumption  that 
this  progress  is  not  merely  an  oscillation, 
as  has  been  surmised  by  some  late  astron- 
omers.1 Bones  of  animals  peculiar  to 
the  torrid  zone  have  been  found  in  the 
north  of  Siberia,  and  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  Ohio.  Plants  have  been  found  in 
the  fossil  state  in  the  interior  of  Germany, 
which  demand  the  present  climate  of 
Hindostan  for  their  production.-  The 
researches  of  M.  Bailly'5  establish  the 
existence  of  a  people  who  inhabited  a 
tract  in  Tartary  490  north  latitude,  of 
greater  antiquity  than  either  the  Indians, 
the  Chinese,  or  the  Chaldeans,  from  whom 
these  nations  derived  their  sciences  and 
theology.  We  find,  from  the  testimony 
of  ancient  writers,  that  Britain,  Germany, 
and  France  were  much  colder  than  at 
present,  and  that  their  great  rivers  were 
annually  frozen  over.  Astronomy  teaches 
us  also  that  since  this  period  the  obliquity 
of  the  earth's  position  has  been  consid- 
erably diminished. 

VI.  — Page  48. 

No  atom  of  this  turbide)ice  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitated  task, 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ought  to  act. 

"Dcuxexemplesserviront  anousrendre 
plus  sensible  le  principe  qui  vient  d'etre 
pose;  nous  emprunterons  l'une  du  phy- 
sique et  1 'autre  du  moral.  Dans  un  tour- 
billon  de  poussiere  qu'eleve  un  vent  im- 
petueux,  queiquc  confus  qu'il  paraisse  a 
nos  yeux;  dans  la  plus  affreuse  tempete 
excitee  par  des  vents  opposes  qui  sou- 
levent  les  flots,  il  n'y  a  pas  une  seule 
molecule  de  poussiere  011  d'eau  qui  soit 
placee  au  hasard,  qui  n'ait  sa  cause  suffi- 
sante  pour  occuper  le  lieu  ou  elle  se 
trouve,  et  qui  n'agisse  rigoureusement  de 
la  maniere  dont  elle  doit  agir.  Une 
geometre  qui  connaitrait  exactement  les 
diffdrentes  forces  qui  agissent  dans  ces 
deux  cas,  et  les  proprictes  des  molecules 
qui  sont  mues,  demontrerait  que  d'apres 
des  causes  donnees,  chaque  molecule  a_<j;it 

1  Laplace,  Svst>me  du  Monde. 

2  Cabanis,  Raf>t>oris  du  Physique  et  du  Moral 
CUT  Homme,  vol.  ii.  p.   ,  /,. 

:;   Bailly,  Lettres  juries  Sciences,  a  Voltaire. 


precisement  comme  elle  doit  agir,  et  ne 
peut  agir  autrement  qu'elle  he  fait. 

Dans  les  convulsions  terribles  qui 
agitent  quelquefois  lessocietes  politiques, 
et  qui  produisent  souvent  le  renverse- 
ment  d'un  empire,  il  n'y  a  pas  une  seule 
action,  une  seule  parole,  une  seule  pen- 
see,  une  seule  volonte,  une  seule  passion 
dans  les  agens  qui  concourent  a  la  revo- 
lution comme  destructeurs  ou  comme  vic- 
times,  qui  ne  soit  necessaire,  cpii  n'agisse 
comme  elle  doit  agir,  qui  n'opere  infal- 
liblement  les  effets  qu'elle  doit  operer, 
suivant  la  place  qu'occupent  ces  agens 
clans  ce  tourbillon  moral.  Cela  parai- 
trait  evident  pour  une  intelligence  qui 
serait  en  etat  de  saisir  et  d'apprecier 
toutes  les  actions  et  reactions  des  esprits 
et  des  corps  de  ceux  qui  contribuent  a 
cette  revolution."  —  Systeme  de  la  Na- 
ture, vol.  i.  p.  44. 

VI.  —Page  48. 

Necessity  !  thou  mother  of  the  zvorld ! 

He  who  asserts  the  doctrine  of  Neces- 
sity means  that,  contemplating  the  events 
which  compose  the  moral  and  material 
universe,  he  beholds  only  an  immense 
and  uninterrupted  chain  of  causes  and 
effects,  no  one  of  which  could  occupy 
any  other  place  than  it  does  occupy,  or 
act  in  any  other  place  than  it  does  act. 
The  idea  of  necessity  is  obtained  by  our 
experience  of  the  connection  between 
objects,  the  uniformity  of  the  operations 
of  nature,  the  constant  conjunction  of 
similar  events,  and  the  consequent  in- 
ference of  one  from  the  other.  Man- 
kind are  therefore  agreed  in  the  admis- 
sion of  necessity,  if  they  admit  that 
these  two  circumstances  take  place  in 
voluntary  action.  Motive  is  to  voluntary 
action  in  the  human  mind  what  cause  is 
to  effect  in  the  material  universe.  The 
word  liberty,  as  applied  to  mind,  is  anal- 
ogous to  the  word  chance  as  applied  to 
matter:  they  spring  from  an  ignorance 
of  the  certainty  of  the  conjunction  of 
antecedents  and  consequents. 

Kvery  human  being  is  irresistibly  im- 
pelled   to  act    precisely  as   he   does  act: 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


69 


in  the  eternity  which  preceded  his  birth 
a  chain  of  causes  was  generated,  which, 
operating  under  the  name  of  motives, 
make  it  impossible  that  any  thought  of 
his  mind,  or  any  action  of  his  life,  should 
be  otherwise  than  it  is.  Were  the  doc- 
trine of  Necessity  false,  the  human  mind 
would  no  longer  be  a  legitimate  object  of 
science;  from  like  causes  it  would  be  in 
vain  that  we  should  expect  like  effects; 
the  strongest  motive  would  no  longer  be 
paramount  over  the  conduct;  all  knowl- 
edge would  be  vague  and  undetermi- 
nate;  we  could  not  predict  with  any  cer- 
tainty that  we  might  not  meet  as  an 
enemy  to-morrow  him  with  whom  we 
have  parted  in  friendship  to-night;  the 
most  probable  inducements  and  the  clear- 
est reasonings  would  lose  the  invariable 
influence  they  possess.  The  contrary  of 
this  is  demonstrably  the  fact.  Similar 
circumstances  produce  the  same  unvaria- 
ble  effects.  The  precise  character  and 
motives  of  any  man  on  any  occasion 
being  given,  the  moral  philosopher  could 
predict  his  actions  with  as  much  cer- 
tainty as  the  natural  philosopher  could 
predict  the  effects  of  the  mixture  of  any 
particular  chemical  substances.  Why  is 
the  aged  husbandman  more  experienced 
than  the  young  beginner  ?  Because  there 
is  a  uniform,  undeniable  necessity  in 
the  operations  of  the  material  universe. 
Why  is  the  old  statesman  more  skilful 
than  the  raw  politician?  Because,  rely- 
ing on  the  necessary  conjunction  of 
motive  and  action,  he  proceeds  to  pro- 
duce moral  effects,  by  the  application  of 
those  moral  causes  which  experience  has 
shown  to  be  effectual.  Some  actions 
may  be  found  to  which  we  can  attach  no 
motives,  but  these  are  the  effects  of 
causes  with  which  we  are  unacquainted. 
Hence  the  relation  which  motive  bears 
to  voluntary  action  is  that  of  cause  to 
effect;  nor,  placed  in  this  point  of  view, 
is  it,  or  ever  has  it  been,  the  subject  of 
popular  or  philosophical  dispute.  None 
but  the  few  fanatics  who  are  engaged  in 
the  herculean  task  of  reconciling  the 
justice  of  their  God  with  the  misery  of 
man,  will  longer  outrage  common  sense 
by  the  supposition  of  an   event   without 


a  cause,  a  voluntary  action  without  a 
motive.  History,  politics,  morals,  criti- 
cism, all  grounds  of  reasonings,  all  prin- 
ciples of  science,  alike  assume  the  truth 
of  the  doctrine  of  Necessity.  No  farmer 
carrying  his  corn  to  market  doubts  the 
sale  of  it  at  the  market  price.  The 
master  of  a  manufactory  no  more  doubts 
that  he  can  purchase  the  human  labor 
necessary  for  his  purposes  than  that  his 
machinery  will  act  as  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  act. 

But,  whilst  none  have  scrupled  to  ad- 
mit necessity  as  influencing  matter,  many 
have  disputed  its  dominion  over  mind. 
Independently  of  its  militating  with  the 
received  ideas  of  the  justice  of  God,  it  is 
by  no  means  obvious  to  a  superficial  in- 
quiry. When  the  mind  observes  its  own 
operations,  it  feels  no  connection  of  mo- 
tive and  action:  but  as  we  know  "  noth- 
ing more  of  causation  than  the  constant 
conjunction  of  objects  and  the  conse- 
quent inference  of  one  from  the  other, 
as  we  find  that  these  two  circumstances 
are  universally  allowed  to  have  place 
in  voluntary  action,  we  may  be  easily 
led  to  own  that  they  are  subjected  to 
the  necessity  common  to  all  causes." 
The  actions  of  the  will  have  a  regular 
conjunction  with  circumstances  and  char- 
acters; motive  is  to  voluntary  action 
what  cause  is  to  effect.  But  the  only 
idea  we  can  form  of  causation  is  a  con- 
stant conjunction  of  similar  objects,  and 
the  consequent  inference  of  one  from  the 
other:  wherever  this  is  the  case  necessity 
is  clearly  established. 

The  idea  of  liberty,  applied  metaphor- 
ically to  the  will,  has  sprung  from  a  mis- 
conception of  the  meaning  of  the  word 
power.  What  is  power? —  id  quod  po- 
test, that  which  can  produce  any  given 
effect.  To  deny  power  is  to  say  that 
nothing  can  or  has  the  power  to  be  or 
act.  In  the  only  true  sense  of  the  word 
power,  it  applies  with  equal  force  to  the 
loadstone  as  to  the  human  will.  Do  you 
think  these  motives,  which  I  shall  pre- 
sent, are  powerful  enough  to  rouse  him? 
is  a  question  just  as  common  as,  Do  you 
think  this  lever  has  the  power  of  raising 
this  weight?     The  advocates  of  free-will 


7° 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


assert  that  the  will  has  the  power  of  re- 
fusing to  be  determined  by  the  strongest 
motive :  but  the  strongest  motive  is  that 
which,  overcoming  all  others,  ultimately 
prevails;  this  assertion  therefore  amounts 
to  a  denial  of  the  will  being  ultimately 
determined  by  that  motive  which  does 
determine  it,  which  is  absurd.  But  it  is 
equally  certain  that  a  man  cannot  resist 
the  strongest  motive  as  that  he  cannot 
overcome  a  physical  impossibility. 

The  doctrine  of  Necessity  tends  to  in- 
troduce a  great  change  into  the  estab- 
lished notions  of  morality,  and  utterly  to 
destroy  religion.  Reward  and  punish- 
ment must  be  considered,  by  the  Neces- 
sarian, merely  as  motives  which  he  would 
employ  in  order  to  procure  the  adoption 
or  abandonment  of  any  given  line  of 
conduct.  Desert,  in  the  present  sense 
of  the  word,  would  no  longer  have  any 
meaning;  and  he  who  should  inflict  pain 
upon  another  for  no  better  reason  than 
that  he  deserved  it,  would  only  gratify 
his  revenge  under  pretence  of  satisfy- 
ing justice.  It  is  not  enough,  says  the 
advocate  of  free-will,  that  a  criminal 
should  be  prevented  from  a  repetition  of 
his  crime:  he  should  feel  pain,  and  his 
torments,  when  justly  inflicted,  ought 
precisely  to  be  proportioned  to  his  fault. 
But  utility  is  morality;  that  which  is  in- 
capable of  producing  happiness  is  useless; 
and  though  the  crime  of  Damiens  must 
be  condemned,  yet  the  frightful  torments 
which  revenge,  under  the  name  of  jus- 
tice, inflicted  on  this  unhappy  man  can- 
not be  supposed  to  have  augmented, 
even  at  the  long  run,  the  stock  of  pleas- 
urable sensation  in  the  world.  At  the 
same  time,  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  does 
not  in  the  least  diminish  our  disapproba- 
tion of  vice.  The  conviction  which  all 
feel  that  a  viper  is  a  poisonous  animal, 
and  that  a  tiger  is  constrained,  by  the 
inevitable  condition  of  his  existence,  to 
devour  men,  does  not  induce  us  to  avoid 
them  less  sedulously,  or,  even  more,  to 
hesitate  in  destroying  them :  but  he 
would  surely  be  of  a  hard  heart  who, 
meeting  with  a  serpent  on  a  desert  island, 
or  in  a  situation  where  it  was  incapable 
of  injury,  should  wantonly  deprive   it  of 


existence.  A  Necessarian  is  inconse- 
quent to  his  own  principles  if  he  indulges 
in  hatred  or  contempt;  the  compassion 
which  he  feels  for  the  criminal  is  unmixed 
with  a  desire  of  injuring  him :  he  looks 
with  an  elevated  and  dreadless  compo- 
sure upon  the  links  of  the  universal  chain 
as  they  pass  before  his  eyes;  whilst  cow- 
ardice, curiosity,  and  inconsistency  only 
assail  him  in  proportion  to  the  feeble- 
ness and  indistinctness  with  which  he  has 
perceived  and-  rejected  the  delusions  of 
free-will. 

Religion  is  the  perception  of  the  re- 
lation in  which  we  stand  to  the  principle 
of  the  universe.  But  if  the  principle  of 
the  universe  be  not  an  organic  being,  the 
model  and  prototype  of  man,  the  relation 
between  it  and  human  beings  is  abso- 
lutely none.  Without  some  insight  into 
its  will  respecting  our  actions  religion  is 
nugatory  and  vain.  But  will  is  only  a 
mode  of  animal  mind;  moral  qualities 
also  are  such  as  only  a  human  being  can 
possess;  to  attribute  them  to  the  princi- 
ple of  the  universe  is  to  annex  to  it 
properties  incompatible  with  any  possible 
definition  of  its  nature.  It  is  probable 
that  the  word  God  was  originally  only 
an  expression  denoting  the  unknown 
cause  of  the  known  events  which  men 
perceived  in  the  universe.  By  the  vulgai 
mistake  of  a  metaphor  for  a  real  being, 
of  a  word  for  a  thing,  it  became  a  man, 
endowed  with  human  qualities  and 
governing  the  universe  as  an  earthly 
monarch  governs  his  kingdom.  Their 
addresses  to  this  imaginary  being,  indeed, 
are  much  in  the  same  style  as  those  of 
subjects  to  a  king.  They  acknowledge 
his  benevolence,  deprecate  his  anger,  and 
supplicate  his  favor. 

But  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  teaches 
us  that  in  no  case  could  any  event  have 
happened  otherwise  than  it  did  happen, 
and  that,  if  God  is  the  author  of  good, 
he  is  also  the  author  of  evil  ;  that,  if  he 
is  entitled  to  our  gratitude  for  the  one, 
he  is  entitled  to  our  hatred  for  the  other; 
that,  admitting  the  existence  of  this  hypo- 
thetic being,  he  is  also  subjected  to  the 
dominion  of  nn  immutable  necessity.  It 
is  plain   that  the  same  arguments  which 


NOTES    7  V   QUE  BIN  MAB. 


71 


prove  that  God  is  the  author  of  food, 
light,  and  life,  prove  him  also  to  be  the 
author  of  poison,  darkness,  and  death. 
The  wide-wasting  earthquake,  the  storm, 
the  battle,  and  the  tyranny,  are  attribu- 
table to  this  hypothetic  being  in  the  same 
degree  as  the  fairest  forms  of  nature,  sun- 
shine, liberty,  and  peace. 

But  we  are  taught,  by  the  doctrine  of 
Necessity,  that  there  is  neither  good  nor 
evil  in  the  universe,  otherwise  than  as  the 
events  to  which  we  apply  these  epithets 
have  relation  to  our  own  peculiar  mode 
of  being.  Still  less  than  with  the  hy- 
pothesis of  a  God  will  the  doctrine  of 
Necessity  accord  with  the  belief  of  a 
future  state  of  punishment.  God  made 
man  such  as  he  is,  and  then  damned 
him  for  being  so;  for  to  say  that  God 
was  the  author  of  all  good,  and  man 
the  author  of  all  evil,  is  to  say  that  one 
man  made  a  straight  line  and  a  crooked 
one,  and  another  man  made  the  incon- 
gruity. 

A  Mahometan  story,  much  to  the 
present  purpose,  is  recorded,  wherein 
Adam  and  Moses  are  introduced  disput- 
ing before  God  in  the  following  manner. 
Thou,  says  Moses,  art  Adam,  whom  God 
created,  and  animated  with  the  breath  of 
life,  and  caused  to  be  worshipped  by  the 
angels,  and  placed  in  Paradise,  from 
whence  mankind  have  been  expelled  for 
thy  fault.  Whereto  Adam  answered, 
Thou  art  Moses,  whom  God  chose  for 
his  apostle,  and  intrusted  with  his  word, 
by  giving  thee  the  tables  of  the  law,  and 
whom  he  vouchsafed  to  admit  to  dis- 
course with  himself.  How  many  years 
dost  thou  find  the  law  was  written  before 
I  was  created?  Says  Moses,  Forty.  And 
dost  thou  not  find,  replied  Adam,  these 
words  therein,  And  Adam  rebelled  against 
his  Lord  and  transgressed  ?  Which  Moses 
confessing,  Dost  thou  therefore  blame 
me,  continued  he,  for  doing  that  which 
God  wrote  of  me  that  I  should  do,  forty 
years  before  I  was  created,  nay,  for  what 
was  decreed  concerning  me  fifty  thou- 
sand years  before  the  creation  of  heaven 
and  earth?  —  Sale's  Prelim.  Disc,  to  the 
Koran,  p.  164. 


VII.  — Page  49. 

There  is  no  God ! 

This  negation  must  be  understood 
solely  to  affect  a  creative  Deity.  The 
hypothesis  of  a  pervading  Spirit  coetei  nai 
with  the  universe  remains  unshaken. 

A  close  examination  of  the  validity  o! 
the  proofs  adduced  to  support  any  propo- 
sition is  the  only  secure  way  of  attaining 
truth,  on  the  advantages  of  which  it  ii, 
unnecessary  to  descant:  our  knowledge 
of  the  existence  of  a  Deity  is  a  subject  <f 
such  importance  that  it  cannot  be*  too 
minutely  investigated;  in  consequence  of 
this  conviction  we  proceed  briefly  and 
impartially  to  examine  the  proofs  which 
have  been  adduced.  It  is  necessary  first 
to  consider  the  nature  of  belief. 

When  a  proposition  is  offered  to  the 
mind,  it  perceives  the  agreement  or  disa- 
greement of  the  ideas  of  which  it  is  com- 
posed. A  perception  of  their  agreement 
is  termed  belief.  Many  obstacles  fre- 
quently prevent  this  perception  from 
being  immediate;  these  the  mind  at- 
tempts to  remove  in  order  that  the  per- 
ception may  be  distinct.  The  mind  is 
active  in  the  investigation  in  order  to 
perfect  the  state  of  perception  of  the 
relation  which  the  component  ideas  of 
the  proposition  bear  to  each,  which  is 
passive :  the  investigation  being  confused 
with  the  perception  has  induced  many 
falsely  to  imagine  that  the  mind  is  active 
in  belief,  —  that  belief  is  an  act  of  voli- 
tion,—  in  consequence  of  which  it  may 
be  regulated  by  the  mind.  Pursuing,  con- 
tinuing this  mistake,  they  have  attached 
a  degree  of  criminality  to  disbelief;  of 
which,  in  its  nature,  it  is  incapable:  it  is 
equally  incapable  of  merit. 

Belief,  then,  is  a  passion,  the  strength 
of  which,  like  every  other  passion,  is  in 
precise  proportion  to  the  degrees  of  ex- 
citement. 

The  degrees  of  excitement  are  three. 

The  senses  are  the  sources  of  all  knowl- 
edge to  the  mind;  consequently  their  evi- 
dence claims  the  strongest  assent. 

The    decision    of    the    mind,    founded 


72 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAS. 


upon  our  own   experience,  derived   from 
these  sources,  claims  the  next  degree. 

The   experience  of    others,   which   ad- 
dresses itself  to  the  former  one,  occupies   ' 
the  lowest  degree. 

(A  graduated  scale,   on  which  should 
be  marked  the  capabilities  of  propositions   j 
to    approach    to  the   test  of    the  senses, 
would  be  a  just  barometer  of  the  belief 
which  ought  to  be  attached  to  them.) 

Consequently  no  testimony  can  be  ad- 
mitted which  is  contrary  to  reason;  reason 
is  founded  on  the  evidence  of  our  senses. 

Every  proof  may  be  referred  to  one  of 
the^e  three  divisions  :  it  is  to  be  considered 
what  arguments  we  receive  from  each  of 
them,  which  should  convince  us  of  the 
existence  of  a  Deity. 

1st,  The  evidence  of  the  senses.  If 
the  Deity  should  appear  to  us,  if  he  should 
convince  our  senses  of  his  existence,  this 
revelation  would  necessarily  command 
belief.  Those  to  whom  the  Deity  has 
thus  appeared  have  the  strongest  possible 
conviction  of  his  existence.  But  the 
God  of  Theologians  is  incapable  of  local 
visibility. 

2d,  Reason.  It  is  urged  that  man 
knows  that  whatever  is  must  either  have 
had  a  beginning,  or  have  existed  from 
all  eternity  :  he  also  knows  that  whatever 
is  not  eternal  must  have  had  a  cause. 
When  this  reasoning  is  applied  to  the 
universe,  it  is  necessary  to  prove  that  it 
was  created:  until  that  is  clearly  demon- 
strated we  may  reasonably  suppose  that 
it  has  endured  from  all  eternity.  We 
must  prove  design  before  we  can  infer 
a  designer.  The  only  idea  which  we 
can  form  of  causation  is  derivable  from 
the  constant  conjunction  of  objects,  and 
the  consequent  inference  of  one  from  the 
other.  In  a  case  where  two  propositions 
are  diametrically  opposite,  the  mind 
believes  that  which  is  least  incompre- 
hensible ;  —  it  is  easier  to  suppose  that  the 
universe  has  existed  from  all  eternity 
than  to  conceive  a  being  beyond  its 
limits  capable  of  creating  it:  if  the 
mind  sinks  beneath  the  weight  of  one, 
is  it  an  alleviation  to  increase  the  intoler- 
ability  of  the  burden? 

The  other  argument,  which  is  founded 


on  a  man's  knowledge  of  his  own  exist- 
ence, stands  thus.  A  man  knows  not 
only  that  he  now  is,  but  that  once  he 
was  not;  consequently  there  must  have 
been  a  cause.  But  our  idea  of  causation 
is  alone  derivable  from  the  constant  con- 
junction of  objects  and  the  consequent 
inference  of  one  from  the  other;  and, 
reasoning  experimentally,  we  can  only 
infer  from  effects  causes  exactly  adequate 
to  those  effects.  But  there  certainly  is  a 
generative  power  which  is  effected  by 
certain  instruments :  we  cannot  prove 
that  it  is  inherent  in  these  instruments; 
nor  is  the  contrary  hypothesis  capable  of 
demonstration  :  we  admit  that  the  genera- 
tive power  is  incomprehensible;  but  to 
suppose  that  the  same  effect  is  produced 
by  an  eternal,  omniscient,  omnipotent 
being  leaves  the  cause  in  the  same  ob- 
scurity, but  renders  it  more  incompre- 
hensible. 

3d,  Testimony.  It  is  required  that 
testimony  should  not  be  contrary  toreason. 
The  testimony  that  the  Deity  convinces 
the  senses  of  men  of  his  existence  can 
only  be  admitted  by  us  if  our  mind  con- 
siders it  less  probable  that  these  men 
should  have  been  deceived  than  that  the 
Deity  should  have  appeared  to  them.  Our 
reason  can  never  admit  the  testimony  of 
men,  who  not  only  declare  that  they  were 
eye-witnesses  of  miracles,  but  that  the 
Deity  was  irrational;  for  he  commanded 
that  he  should  be  believed,  he  proposed 
the  highest  rewards  for  faith,  eternal  pun- 
ishments for  disbelief.  We  can  only 
command  voluntary  actions;  belief  is  not 
an  act  of  volition;  the  mind  is  even  pas- 
sive, or  involuntarily  active;  from  this 
it  is  evident  that  we  have  no  sufficient 
testimony,  or  rather  that  testimony  is  in- 
sufficient to  prove  the  being  of  a  God.  It 
has  been  before  shown  that  it  cannot  be 
deduced  from  reason.  They  alone,  then, 
who  have  been  convinced  by  the  evidence 
of  the  senses  can  believe  it. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that,  having  no 
proofs  from  either  of  the  three  sources  of 
conviction,  the  mind  can  not  believe  the 
existence  of  a  creative  God:  it  is  also 
evident  that,  as  belief  is  a  passion  of  the 
mind,  no  degree  of  criminality  is  attach- 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


73 


able  to  disbelief;  and  that  they  only  are 
reprehensible  who  neglect  to  remove  the 
false  medium  through  which  their  mind 
views  any  subject  of  discussion.  Every 
reflecting  mind  must  acknowledge  that 
there  is  no  proof  of  the  existence  of  a 
Deity.' 

God  is  an  hypothesis,  and,  as  such, 
stands  in  need  of  proof :  the  onus probandi 
rests  on  the  theist.  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
says:  Hypotheses  non jingo,  quicquid enim 
ex  phcenomenis  non  deducitur  hypothesis 
vocanda  est,  et  hypothesis  vel  metaphysicce, 
vel  physicce,  vel  qualitatum  occultarum, 
sen  mcclianiciC,  in  philosophid  locum 
non  habent.  To  all  proofs  of  the 
existence  of  a  creative  God  apply  this 
valuable  rule.  We  see  a  variety  of  bodies 
possessing  a  variety  of  powers  :  we  merely 
know  their  effects;  we  are  in  a  state  of 
ignorance  with  respect  to  their  essences 
and  causes.  These  Newton  calls  the 
phenomena  of  things;  but  the  pride  of 
philosophy  is  unwilling  to  admit  its  igno- 
rance of  their  causes.  From  the  phe- 
nomena, which  are  the  objects  of  our 
senses,  we  attempt  to  infer  a  cause,  which 
we  call  God,  and  gratuitously  endow  it 
with  all  negative  and  contradictory  quali- 
ties. From  this  hypothesis  we  invent 
this  general  name,  to  conceal  our  igno- 
rance of  causes  and  essences.  The  being 
called  God  by  no  means  answers  with 
the  conditions  prescribed  by  Newton;  it 
bears  every  mark  of  a  veil  woven  by  phil- 
osophical conceit,  to  hide  the  ignorance 
of  philosophers  even  from  themselves. 
They  borrow  the  threads  of  its  texture 
from  the  anthropomorphism  of  the  vulgar. 
Words  have  been  used  by  sophists  for 
the  same  purposes,  from  the  occult  qual- 
ities of  the  peripatetics  to  the  effluvium 
of  Boyle  and  the  en;, Hies  or  nebula-  of 
Herschel.  God  is  represented  as  infinite, 
eternal ,  incomprehensible ;  he  is  contained 
under  every  predicate  in  non  that  the  logic 
of  ignorance  could  fabricate.  Even  his 
worshippers  allow  that  it  is  impossible  to 
form  any  idea  of  him :  they  exclaim  with 
the  French  poet, 

Pour  dire  ce  qu'il  est,  il  faute  etre  lui- 
tnerne. 


Lord  Bacon  says  that  atheism  leaves 
I  to  man  reason,  philosophy,  natural  piety, 
\  laws,  reputation,  and  everything  that  can 
serve  to  conduct  him  to  virtue;  but  super- 
stition destroys  all  these,  and  erects  itself 
into  a  tyranny  over  the  understandings  of 
men :  hence  atheism  never  disturbs  the 
government,  but  renders  man  more  clear- 
sighted, since  he  sees  nothing  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  present  life.  —  Bacon's 
Moral  Essays. 

La  premiere  theologie  de  l'homme  lui 
fit  d'abord  craindre  et  adorer  les  ele- 
ments meme,  des  objets  materiels  et  gros- 
siers;  il  rendit  ensuite  ses  hommages  a 
des  agents  presidents  aux  elements,  a  des 
genies  inferieurs,  a  des  heros,  ou  a  des 
hommes  doues  de  grandes  qualites.  A 
force  de  refiechir  'il  crut  simplifier  les 
choses  en  soumettant  la  nature  entiere 
a  un  seul  agent,  a  une  intelligence 
souveraine,  a  un  esprit,  a.  une  ame  uni- 
verselle,  qui  mettait  cette  nature  et  ses 
parties  en  mouvement.  En  remontant 
de  causes  en  causes,  les  mortels  ont  fini 
par  ne  rien  voir;  et  c'est  dans  cette  ob- 
scurite  qu'ils  ont  place  leur  Dieu;  c'est 
dans  cette  abime  tenebreux  que  leur 
imagination  inquiete  travaille  toujours  a. 
se  fabriquer  des  chimeres,  que  les  affli- 
geront  jusqu'a  ce  que  la  connaissance  de 
la  nature  les  detrompe  des  fantomes 
qu'ils  ont  toujours  si  vainement  adores. 

Si  nous  voulons  nous  rendre  compte 
de  nos  idees  sur  la  Divinite,  nous  serons 
obliges  de  convenir  que,  par  le  mot  Dieu, 
les  hommes  n'ont  jamais  pu  designer  que 
la  cause  la  plus  cachee,  la  plus  eloignee, 
la  plus  inconnue  des  effets  qu'ils  voy- 
aient :  ils  ne  font  usage  de  ce  mot,  que 
lorsque  le  jeu  des  causes  naturelles  et 
connues  cesse  d'etre  visible  pour  eux; 
des  qu'ils  perdent  le  fil  de  ces  causes,  ou 
des  que  leur  esprit  ne  peut  plus  en  suivre 
la  chaine,  ils  tranchent  leur  difficulte,  et 
terminent  leurs  recherches  en  appellant 
Dieu  la  derniere  des  causes,  e'est-a-dire 
celle  qui  est  au-dela  de  toutes  les  causes 
qu'ils  connaissent;  ainsi  ils  ne  font 
qu'assi^ner  une  denomination  vague  a 
une  cause  ignoree,  a  laquelle  leur  paresse 
ou  les  borncs  de  leurs  connaissances  les 


74 


NOTES   TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


forcent  de  s'arreter.  Toutes  les  fois 
qu'on  nous  dit  que  Dieu  est  Pauteur  de 
quelque  phenomene,  cela  signifie  qu'on 
ignore  comment  un  tel  phenomene  a  pu 
s'operer  par  le  secours  des  forces  ou  des 
causes  que  nous  connaissons  dans  la 
nature.  C'est  ainsi  que  le  commun  des 
hommes,  dont  l'ignorance  est  la  partage, 
attribue  a  la  Divinite  non  seulement  les 
effets  inusites  qui  les  frappent,  mais 
encore  les  evenemens  les  plus  simples, 
dont  les  causes  sont  les  plus  faciles  a 
connaitre  pour  quiconque  a  pu  les  me- 
diter.  En  un  mot,  l'homme  a  toujours 
respecte  les  causes  inconnues  des  effets 
surprenants,  que  son  ignorance  l'era- 
pechait  de  demeler.  Ce  fut  sur  les  debris 
de  la  nature  que  les  hommes  eleverent  le 
colosse  imaginaire  de  la  Divinite. 

Si  l'ignorance  de  la  nature  donna  la 
naissance  aux  dieux,  la  connaissance  de 
la  nature  est  faite  pour  les  detruire.  A 
mesure  que  l'homme  s'instruit,  ses  forces 
et  ses  ressources  augmentent  avec  ses 
lumieres;  les  sciences,  les  arts  conserva- 
teurs,  l'industrie,  lui  fournissent  des  se- 
cours; l'experience  le  rassure  ou  lui 
procure  des  moyens  de  resister  aux  efforts 
de  bien  des  causes  qui  cessent  de  Palar- 
mer  des  qu'il  les  a  connues.  En  un 
mot,  ses  terreurs  se  dissipent  dans  la 
m.eme  proportion  que  son  esprit  s'eclaire. 
L'homme  instruit  cesse  d'etre  supersti- 
tieux. 

Ce  n'est  jamais  que  sur  parole  que  des 
peuples  entiers  adorent  le  Dieu  de  leurs 
peres  et  de  leurs  pretres:  Pautorite,  la 
confiance,  la  soumission,  et  Phabitude 
leur  tiennent  lieu  de  conviction  et  de 
preuves;  ils  se  prosternent  et  pricnt, 
parceque  leurs  peres  leur  ont  appris  a 
se  prosterner  et  a  prier:  mais  pourquoi 
ceux-ci  se  sont-ils  mis  a  genoux?  C'est 
que  dans  les  temps  eloignes  leurs  legis- 
lateurs  et  leurs  guides  leur  en  ont  fait  un 
devoir.  "  Adorez  et  croyez,"  ont-ils  dit, 
"des  dieux  que  vous  ne  pouvez  com- 
prendre;  rapportez-vous-en  a  notre  sa- 
gesse  profonde;  nous  en  savons  plus  que 
vous  sur  la  divinite."  Mais  pourquoi 
m'en  rapporterais-je  a  vous?  C'est  que 
Dieu  le  veut  ainsi,  c'est  que  Dieu  vous 
punira    si  vous   osez    resister.      Mais    ce 


Dieu  n'est-il  done  pas  la  chose  en  ques- 
tion? Cependant  les  hommes  se  sont 
toujours  payes  de  ce  cercle  vicieux;  la 
paresse  de  leur  esprit  leur  fit  trouver  plus 
court  de  s'en  rapporter  au  jugement  des 
autres.  Toutes  les  notions  religieuses 
sont  fondees  uniquement  sur  Pautorite; 
toutes  les  religions  du  monde  dependent 
Pexamen  et  ne  veulent  pas  que  l'on  rai- 
sonne;  c'est  Pautorite  qui  veut  qu'on 
croie  en  Dieu;  ce  Dieu  n'est  lui-meme 
fonde  que  sur  Pautorite  de  quelques 
hommes  qui  pretendent  le  connaitre,  et 
venir  de  sa  part  pour  Pannoncer  a  la 
terre.  Un  Dieu  fait  par  les  hommes, 
a  sans  doutes  besoin  des  hommes  pour 
se  faire  connaitre  aux  hommes. 

Ne  serait-ce  done  que  pour  des  pretres, 
des  inspires,  des  metaphysiciens  que  serait 
reservee  la  conviction  de  Pexistence  d'un 
Dieu,  que  l'on  dit  neanmoins  si  necessaire 
a  tout  le  genre  humain?  Mais  trouvons- 
nous  de  Pharmonie  entre  les  opinions 
theologiques  des  differents  inspires,  ou 
des  penseurs  repandus  sur  la  terre?  Ceux 
meme  que  font  profession  d'adorer  le 
meme  Dieu,  sont-ils  d'accord  sur  son 
compte?  Sont-ils  contents  des  preuves 
que  leurs  collegues  apportent  de  son  exis- 
tence? Souscrivent-ils  unanimement  aux 
idees  qu'ils  presentent  sur  sa  nature,  sur 
sa  conduite,  sur  la  facon  d'entendre  ses 
pretendus  oracles?  Est-il  une  contree  sur 
la  terre  ou  la  science  de  Dieu  se  soit 
reellement  perfectionnee?  A-t-elle  pris 
quelque  part  la  consistence  et  Puniformite 
que  nous  voyons  prendre  aux  connais- 
sances  humaines,  aux  arts  les  plus  futiles, 
aux  metiers  les  plus  meprises?  Ces  moti 
d' esprit  d! '  i  m  materialize,  de  creation,  de 
predestination,  de  grace  ;  cette  foule  de 
distinctions  subtiles  dont  la  theologie  s'est 
partout  remplie  dans  quelques  pays,  ces 
inventions  si  ingenieuses,  imaginees  par 
des  penseurs  que  se  sont  succedes  depuis 
tant  de  siecles,  n'ont  fait,  helas  !  qu'em- 
brouiller  les  choses,  et  jamais  la  science  la 
plus  necessaire  aux  hommes  n'a  jusqu'ici 
pu  acquerir  la  moindre  fixite.  Depuis 
des  milliers  d'annees  ces  reveurs  oisifs  se 
sont  perpetuellement  relayes  pour  meditei 
la  Divinite,  pour  deviner  sesvoiescachees. 
pour  inventer  des  hypotheses  propres  $ 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


75 


developper  cette  enigme  importante. 
Leur  peu  tie  succes  n'a  point  decourage 
la  vanite  theologique;  toujours  on  a  parle 
deDieu:  on  s'est  dispute,  ons'est  egorge 
pour  lui,  et  cet  etre  sublime  demeure 
toujours  le  plus  ignore  et  le  plus  discute. 

Les  homines  auraient  ete  trop  heureux, 
si,  se  bornant  aux  objets  visibles  qui  les 
interessent,  ils  eussent  employe  a  perfec- 
tionner  leurs  sciences  reelles,  leurs  loix, 
leur  morale,  leur  education,  la  moitie  des 
efforts  qu'ils  ont  mis  dans  leurs  recherches 
sur  la  Divinite.  Ils  auraient  ete  bien 
plus  sages  encore,  et  plus  fortunes,  s'ils 
eussent  pu  consentir  a  laisser  leurs  guides 
desceuvres  se  quereller  entre  eux,  et  sonder 
des  profondeurs  capables  de  les  etourdir, 
sans  se  meler  de  leurs  disputes  insensees. 
Mais  il  est  de  l'essence  de  l'ignorance 
d'attacher  de  l'importance  a  ce  qu'elle  ne 
comprend  pas.  La  vanite  humaine  fait 
que  l'esprit  se  roidit  contre  des  difficultes. 
Plus  un  objet  se  derobe  a  nos  yeux,  plus 
nous  faisons  d'efforts  pour  le  saisir,  parce- 
que  des-lors  il  aiguillonne  notre  orgueil, 
il  excite  notre  curiosite,  il  nous  parait 
interessant.  En  combattant  pour  son 
Dieu  chacun  ne  combattit  en  effet  que 
pour  les  interets  de  sa  propre  vanite,  qui 
de  toutes  les  passions  produites  par  la 
mal-organisation  de  la  societe,  est  la  plus 
prompte  a  s'allarmer,  et  la  plus  propre  a 
produire  de  tres  grandes  folies. 

Si  ecartant  pour  un  moment  les  idees 
facheuses  que  la  theologie  nous  donne 
d'un  Dieu  capricieux,  dont  les  decrets 
partiaux  et  despotiques  decident  du  sort 
des  humains,  nous  ne  voulons  fixer  nos 
yeux  que  sur  la  bonte  pretendue,  que 
tous  les  hommes,  meme  en  tremblant 
devant  ce  Dieu,  s'accordent  a  lui  donner: 
si  nous  lui  supposons  le  projet  qu'on  lui 
prete,  de  n'avoir  travaille  que  pour  sa 
propre  gloire,  d'exiger  les  hommages  des  j 
etresintelligents;  de  ne  chercher  dans  ses  j 
ceuvres  que  le  bien-etre  dii  genre  humain; 
comment  concilier  ces  vues  et  ces  dis- 
positions avec  l'ignorance  vraiment  in-  j 
vincible  dans  laquelle  ce  Dieu,  si  glorieux 
et  si  bon,  laisse  la  plupart  des  hommes 
sur  son  compte?  Si  Dieu  veut  etre 
connu,cheri,  remercie,  que  ne  se  montre- 
t-il  sous  des  traits  favorables   a  tous  ces 


etres  intelligents  dont  il  veut  etre  aime  et 
adore  ?  Pourquoi  ne  point  se  manifester  a 
toute  la  terre  d'une  facon  non  equivoque, 
bien  plus  capable  de  nous  convaincre 
que  ces  revelations  particulieres  qui  sem- 
blent  accuser  la  Divinite  d'une  partialite 
facheuse  pour  quelqu'unes  de  ses  crea- 
tures? Le  tout-puissant  n'aurait-il  done 
pas  des  moyens  plus  convainquants  de  se 
montrer  aux  hommes  que  ces  metamor- 
phoses ridicules,  ces  incarnations  preten- 
dues,  qui  nous  sont  attestees  par  des 
ecrivains  si  peu  d'accord  entre  eux  dans 
les  recits  qu'ils  en  font?  Au  lieu  de  tant 
de  miracles,  inventes  pour  prouver  la 
mission  divine  de  tant  de  legislateurs 
reveres  par  les  differents  peuples  du 
monde,  le  souverain  des  esprits  ne  pou- 
vait-il  pas  convaincre  tout  d'un  coup 
l'esprit  humain  des  choses  qu'il  a  voulu 
lui  faire  connaitre?  Au  lieu  de  suspendre 
un  soleil  dans  la  voute  du  firmament;  au 
lieu  de  repandre  sans  ordre  les  etoiles  et 
les  constellations  qui  remplissent  l'espace, 
n'eiit-il  pas  ete  plus  conforme  aux  vues 
d'un  Dieu  si  jaloux  de  sa  gloire  et  si  bien- 
intentionne  pourl'homme;  d'ecrire d'une 
fa9on  non  sujette  a  dispute,  son  nom,  ses 
attributs,  ses  volontes  permanentes  en 
caracteres  ineffa9ables,  et  lisibles  egale- 
ment  pour  tous  les  habitants  de  la  terre? 
Fersonne  alors  n'aurait  pu  douter  de 
l'existence  d'un  Dieu,  de  ses  volontes 
claires,  de  ses  intentions  visibles.  Sous 
les  yeux  de  ce  Dieu  si  terrible,  personne 
n'aurait  eu  l'audace  de  violer  ses  ordon- 
nances;  nul  mortel  n'eiit  ose  se  mettre 
dans  le  cas  d'attirer  sa  colere :  enfin  nul 
homme  n'eut  eu  le  front  d'en  imposer  en 
son  nom,  ou  d'interpreter  ses  volontes 
suivant  ses  propres  fantaisies. 

En  effet,  quand  meme  on  admettrait 
l'existence  du  Dieu  theologique  et  la 
realite  des  attributs  si  discordants  qu'on 
lui  donne,  l'on  ne  peut  en  rien  conclure, 
pour  autoriser  la  conduite  ou  les  cultes 
qu'on  prescrit  de  lui  rendre.  La 
theologie  est  vraiment  le  tonneau  des 
Dana'ides.  A  force  de  qualites  contra- 
dictoires  et  d'assertions  hasardees,  elle  a, 
pour  ainsi  dire,  tellement  garrotte  son 
Dieu  qu'elle  1'a  mis  dans  l'impossibilite 
d'agir.      S'il    est    infiniment  bon,   quelle 


76 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


raison  aurions-nous  de  le  craindre?  S'il 
est  infinirrent  sage,  de  quoi  nous  inquieter 
sur  notre  sort?  S'il  sait  tout,  pourquoi 
l'avertir  de  nos  besoins,  et  le  fatiguer  de 
nos  prieres?  S'il  est  partout,  pourquoi 
lui  elever  des  temples?  S'il  est  maitre 
de  tout,  pourquoi  lui  faire  des  sacrifices 
et  des  offrandes?  S'il  est  juste,  com- 
ment croire  qu'il  punisse  des  creatures 
qu'il  a  rempiies  de  faiblesses?  Si  la  grace 
fait  tout  en  elles,  quelle  raison  aurait-il 
de  les  recompense?  S'il  est  tout-puis- 
sant, comment  l'offenser,  comment  lui 
resister?  S'il  est  raisonnable,  comment 
se  mettrait-il  en  colere  contre  des  aveu- 
gles,  a  qui  il  a  laisse  la  liberte  de 
deraisonner?  S'il  est  immuable,  de  quel 
droit  pretendrions-nous  faire  changer  ses 
decrets?  S'il  est  inconcevable,  pour- 
quoi nous  en  occuper?  S'IL  A  PARLli, 
POURQUOI  L'UNIVEPvS  N'EST-IL 
PAS  CONVAINCU?  Si  la  connaissance 
d'un  Dieu  est  la  plus  necessaire,  pour- 
quoi n'est-elle  pas  la  plus  evidente  et  la 
plus  claire? —  Systtme  de  la  Nature,  par 
M.  Miraba ud  (Baron  d'Holbach),  Lon- 
don, 1781. 


The  enlightened  and  benevolent  Pliny 
thus  publicly  professes  himself  an  atheist: 
—  Quapropter  effigiem  Dei  formamque 
quserere  imbecillitatis  humanae  reor. 
Quisquis  est  Deus,  si  modo  est  alius, 
et  quacumque  in  parte,  totus  est  sensus, 
totus  est  visus,  totus  auditus,  totus  animae, 
totus  animi,  totus  sui.  .  .  .  Imperfecta? 
vero  in  homine  naturae  praecipua  solatia 
ne  deum  quidem  posse  omnia.  Namque 
nee  sibi  potest  mortem  consciscere,  si 
velit,  quod  homini  dedit  optimum  in 
tantis  vitae  peenis :  nee  mortales  aeter- 
nitate  donare,  aut  revocare  defunctos; 
nee  facere  ut  qui  vixit  non  vixerit,  cjui 
honores  gessit  non  gesserit,  nullumque 
habere  in  praeterita  jus,  praeterquam 
oblivionis,  atque  (ui  facetis  quoque  argu- 
ments societas  hoec  cum  deo  copuletur) 
ut  bis  dena  viginti  non  sint,  ac  multa 
similiter  efficere  non  posse:  per  quae 
declaratur  hand  dubie  naturae  potentiam 
idque  esse  quod  Deum  vocainus. —  Pun. 
Nat.  /Est.  II.  cap.  7  (de  Deo). 


The   consistent  Newtonian   is  necessa- 
!  rily  an  atheist.     See  Sir  W.  Drummond's 
j   "Academical    Questions,"   chap.    iii. — 
I   Sir  W.    seems    to    consider  the  atheism 
I  to  which  it  leads  as  a  sufficient  presump- 
i   tion  of  the  falsehood  of    the   system   of 
J  gravitation;    but  surely  it  is  more  consist- 
I   ent  with   the    good  faith  of    philosophy 
I   to  admit  a  deduction  from  facts  than  an 
;  hypothesis  incapable  of  proof,'  although 
I  it  might  militate  with  the  obstinate  pre- 
;   conceptions  of   the   mob.      Had   this  au- 
thor,  instead   of   inveighing    against    the 
'  guilt   and   absurdity  of  atheism,  demon- 
strated its  falsehood,  his  conduct  would 
;   have   been   more   suited    to   the   modesty 
of   the   sceptic  and  the  toleration  of  the 
philosopher. 

Omnia  enim  per  Dei  potentiam  facta 
sunt.  O  imo  quia  naturae  potentia  nulla  est 
nisi  ipsa  Dei  potentia,  certum  est  nos 
eatenus  Dei  potentiam  non  intelligere, 
quatenus  causas  naturales  ignoramus; 
adeoque  stulte  ad  eandem  Dei  potentiam 
recurritur,  quando  rei  alicujus,  causam 
naturalem,  hoc  est,  ipsam  Dei  potentiam 
ignoramus. — -Spinoza,  Tract.  Theologico- 
Pol.  cap.  i.  p.  14. 

VII.  —  Page  49. 


ih 


asuerus,  rue  / 


"Ahasuerus  thejew  crept  forth  from  the 
dark  cave  of  Mount  Carmel.  Near  two 
thousand  years  have  elapsed  since  he  was 
first  goaded  by  never-ending  restlessness 
to  rove  the  globe  from  pole  to  pole.  When 
our  Lord  was  wearied  with  the  burden 
of  his  ponderous  cross,  and  wanted  to  rest 
before  the  door  of  Ahasuerus,  the  unfeel- 
ing wretch  drove  him  away  with  brutality. 
The  Saviour  of  mankind  staggered,  sink- 
ing under  the  heavy  load,  but  uttered  no 
complaint.  An  angel  of  death  appeared 
before  Ahasuerus,  and  exclaimed  indig- 
nantly, '  barbarian  !  thou  hast  denied  rest 
to  the  Son  of  man  :  be  it  denied  thee  also, 
until  he  comes  to  judge  the  world.' 

"A  black  demon,  let  loose  from  hell 
upon  Ahasuerus,  goads  him  now  from 
country  to  country;  he  is  denied  the  conso- 
lation which  death  affords,  and  precluded 
from  the  rest  of  the  peaceful  grave. 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAE. 


"  Ahasuerus  crept  forth  from  the  dark 
cave  of  Mount  Carmel  —  he  shook  the 
dust  from  his  beard  —  and  taking  up  one 
of  the  skulls  heaped  there  hurled  it  down 
the  eminence  :  it  rebounded  from  the  earth 
in  shivered  atoms.  This  was  my  father  ! 
roared  Ahasuerus.  Seven  more  skulls 
rolled  down  from  rock  to  rock;  while  the 
infuriate  Jew,  following  them  with  ghastly 
looks,  exclaimed  —  And  these  were  my 
wives  !  He  still  continued  to  hurl  down 
skull  after  skull,  roaring  in  dreadful  ac- 
cents—  '  And  these,  and  these,  and  these 
were  my  children  !  They  could  die  ;  but 
I,  reprobate  wretch,  alas  !  I  cannot  die  ! 
Dreadful  beyond  conception  is  the  judg- 
ment that  hangs  over  me.  Jerusalem 
fell  —  I  crushed  the  sucking  babe,  and 
precipitated  myself  into  the  destructive 
flames.  I  curbed  the  Romans  —  but, 
alas  !  alas  !  the  restless  curse  held  me  by 
the  hair,  —  and  I  could  not  die  ! 

"'Rome  the  giantess  fell  —  I  placed 
myself  before  the  falling  statue  —  she  fell 
and  did  not  crush  me.  Nations  sprang  up 
and  disappeared  before  me;  —  but' I  re- 
mained and  did  not  die.  From  cloud- 
encircled  cliffs  did  I  precipitate  myself 
into  the  ocean;  but  the  foaming  billows 
cast  me  upon  the  shore,  and  the  burning 
arrow  of  existence  pierced  my  cold  heart 
again.  I  leaped  into  Etna's  flaming 
abyss,  and  roared  with  the  giants  for  ten 
long  months,  polluting  with  my  groans 
the  Mounts  sulphureuiis  mouth  —  ah  ! 
ten  long  months  !  The  volcano  fermented, 
and  in  a  fiery  stream  of  lava  cast  me  up. 
I  lay  torn  by  the  torture-snakes  of  hell 
amid  the  glowing  cinders,  and  yet  contin- 
ued to  exist. — -A  forest  was  on  fire:  I 
darted  on  wings  of  fury  and  despair  into 
the  crackling  wood.  Fire  dropped  upon 
me  from  the  trees,  but  the  flames  oidy 
singed  my  limbs;  alas!  it  could  not  con- 
sume them.  —  I  now  mixed  with  the 
butchers  of  mankind,  and  plunged  in  the 
tempest  of  the  raging  battle.  I  roared 
defiance  to  the  infuriate  Gaul,  defiance 
to  the  victorious  German;  but  arrows  and 
spears  rebounded  in  shivers  from  my  body. 
The  Saracen's  flaming  sword  broke  upon 
my  skull;  balls  in  vain  hissed  upon  me; 
the  lightnings  of  battle  glared  harmless 


around  my  loins;  in  vain  did  the  elephant 
trample  on  me,  in  vain  the  iron  hoof  of 
the  wrathful  steed  !  The  mine,  big  with 
destructive  power,  burst  upon  me,  and 
hurled  me  high  in  the  air  —  I  fell  on  heaps 
of  smoking  limbs,  but  was  only  singed. 
The  giant's  steel  club  rebounded  from  my 
body;  the  executioner's  hand  could  not 
strangle  me,  the  tiger's  tooth  could  not 
pierce  me,  nor  would  the  hungry  lion  in 
the  circus  devour  me.  I  cohabited  with 
poisonous  snakes,  and  pinched  the  red 
crest  of  the  dragon.  — The  serpent  stung, 
but  could  not  destroy  me.  The  dragon 
tormented,  but  dared  not  to  devour  me. 
—  I  now  provoked  the  fury  of  tyrants : 
I  said  to  Nero,  Thou  art  a  bloodhound  ! 
I  said  to  Christiern,  Thou  art  a  blood- 
hound !  I  said  to  Muley  Ismail,  Thou  art 
a  bloodhound! — The    tyrants    invented 

cruel  torments,  but  did  not  kill  me. 

—Ha!   not  to  be  able  to  die  —  not 

to  be  able  to  die  —  not  to  be  permitted  to 
rest  after  the  toils  of  life  —  to  be  doomed 
to  be  imprisoned  forever  in  the  clay- 
formed  dungeon  —  to  be  forever  clogged 
with  this  worthless  body,  its  load  of  dis- 
eases and  infirmities  —  to  be  condemned 
to  [bejhold  for  millenniums  that  yawning 
monster  Sameness,  and  Time,  that  hun- 
gry hyena,  ever  bearing  children,  and  ever 
devouring  again  her  offspring  ! —  Ha  !  not 
to  be  permitted  to  die  !  Awful  avenger 
in  heaven,  hast  thou  in  thine  armory  of 
wrath  a  punishment  more  dreadful  ?  then 
let  it  thunder  upon  me,  command  a  hur- 
ricane to  sweep  me  down  to  the  foot  of 
Carmel,  that  I  there  may  lie  extended; 
may  pant,  and  writhe,  and  die!" 

This  fragment  is  the  translation  of  part 
of  some  German  work,  whose  title  I  have 
vainly  endeavored  to  discover.  I  picked 
it  up,  dirty  and  torn,  some  years  ago,  in 
Lincoln's-Inn  Fields. 

VII.  —  Page  50. 

/  70  ill  beget  a  son,  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sins  of  all  the  'world. 

A  book  is  put  into  our  hands  when 
children,  called  the  Bible,  the  purport  of 
whose  history  is  briefly  this:  That  God 
made   the   earth  in   six   days,  and   there 


73 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


planted  a  delightful  garden,  in  which  he 
placed  the  first  pair  of  human  beings.  In 
the  midst  of  the  garden  he  planted  a  tree, 
whose  fruit,  although  within  their  reach, 
they  were  forbidden  to  touch.  That  the 
Devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  snake,  persuaded 
them  to  eat  of  this  fruit ;  in  consequence  of 
which  God  condemned  both  them  and 
their  posterity  yet  unborn  to  satisfy  his 
justice  by  their  eternal  misery.  That,  four 
thousand  years  after  these  events  (the 
human  race  in  the  meanwhile  having  gone 
unredeemed  to  perdition),  God  engen- 
dered with  the  betrothed  wife  of  a  carpen- 
ter in  Judea  (whose  virginity  was  never- 
theless uninjured),  and  begat  a  son,  whose 
name  was  Jesus  Christ;  and  who  was  cru- 
cified and  died,  in  order  that  no  more  men 
might  be  devoted  to  hell-fire,  he  bearing 
the  burden  of  his  Father's  displeasure  by 
proxy.  The  book  states,  in  addition,  that 
the  soul  of  whoever  disbelieves  this  sac- 
rifice will  be  burned  with  everlasting  fire. 

During  many  ages  of  misery  and  dark- 
ness this  story  gained  implicit  belief;  but 
at  length  men  arose  who  suspected  that 
it  was  a  fable  and  imposture,  and  that 
Jesus  Christ,  so  far  from  being  a  god,  was 
only  a  man  like  themselves.  But  a  nu- 
merous set  of  men,  who  derived  and  still 
derive  immense  emoluments  from  this 
opinion,  in  the  shape  of  a  popular  belief, 
told  the  vulgar  that  if  they  did  not  believe 
in  the  Bible  they  would  be  damned  to  all 
eternity;  and  burned,  imprisoned,  and 
poisoned  all  the  unbiased  and  uncon- 
nected inquirers  who  occasionally  arose. 
They  still  oppress  them,  so  far  as  the 
people,  now  become  more  enlightened, 
will  allow. 

The  belief  in  all  that  the  Bible  con- 
tains is  called  Christianity.  A  Roman 
governor  of  Judea,  at  the  instance  of  a 
priest-led  mob,  crucified  a  man  called 
Jesus  eighteen  centuries  ago.  He  was  a 
man  of  pure  life,  who  desired  to  rescue 
his  countrymen  from  the  tyranny  of  their 
barbarous  and  degrading  superstitions. 
The  common  fate  of  all  who  desire  to 
benefit  mankind  awaited  him.  The  rab- 
ble, at  the  instigation  of  the  priests,  de- 
manded his  death,  although  his  very  judge 
made  public  acknowledgment  of  his  inno- 


cence. Jesus  was  sacrificed  to  the  honor 
of  that  God  with  whom  he  was  afterwards 
confounded.  It  is  of  importance,  there- 
fore, to  distinguish  between  the  pretended 
character  of  this  being  as  the  Son  of  God 
and  the  Saviour  of  the  world,  and  his  real 
character  as  a  man,  who,  for  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  reform  the  world,  paid  the  for- 
feit of  his  life  to  that  overbearing  tyranny 
which  has  since  so  long  desolated  the  uni- 
verse in  his  name.  Whilst  the  one  is 
a  hypocritical  demon,  who  announces 
himself  as  the  God  of  compassion  and 
peace,  even  whilst  he  stretches  forth  his 
blood-red  hand  with  the  sword  of  discord 
to  waste  the  earth,  having  confessedly 
devised  this  scheme  of  desolation  from 
eternity;  the  other  stands  in  the  foremost 
list  of  those  true  heroes  who  have  died 
in  the  glorious  martyrdom  of  liberty,  and 
have  braved  torture,  contempt,  and  pov- 
erty in  the  cause  of  suffering  humanity.1 

The  vulgar,  ever  in  extremes,  became 
persuaded  that  the  crucifixion  of  Jesus 
was  a  supernatural  event.  Testimonies 
of  miracles,  so  frequent  in  unenlightened 
ages,  were  not  wanting  to  prove  that  he 
was  something  divine.  This  belief,  roll- 
ing through  the  lapse  of  ages,  met  with 
the  reveries  of  Plato  and  the  reasonings 
of  Aristotle,  and  acquired  force  and  ex- 
tent, until  the  divinity  of  Jesus  became 
a  dogma,  which  to  dispute  was  death, 
which  to  doubt  was  infamy. 

Christianity  is  now  the  established 
religion :  he  who  attempts  to  impugn  it 
must  be  contented  to  behold  murderers 
and  traitors  take  precedence  of  him  in 
public  opinion:  though,  if  his  genius  be 
equal  to  his  courage,  and  assisted  by  a 
peculiar  coalition  of  circumstances,  future 
ages  may  exalt  him  to  a  divinity,  and 
persecute  others  in  his  name,  as  he  was 
persecuted  in  the  name  of  his  predecessor 
in  the  homage  of  the  world. 

The  same  means  that  have  supported 
every  other  popular  belief  have  supported 
Christianity.  War,  imprisonment,  assas- 
sination, and  falsehood;  deeds  of  unex- 
ampled and  incomparable  atrocity  have 

1  Since  writing  this  note  I  have  some  reason 
to  suspect  that  Jesus  was  an  ambitious  man,  who 
aspired  to  the  throne  of  Judea. 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


79 


made  it  what  it  is.     The  blood  shed  by 
the  votaries  of  the  God  of    mercy    and 
peace,    since    the    establishment    of     his 
religion,  would  probably  suffice  to  drown 
all  other  sectaries  now  on  the  habitable 
globe.     We  derive  from  our  ancestors  a 
faith   thus   fostered  and  supported:    we 
quarrel,  persecute,  and  hate  for  its  main- 
tenance.      Even    under     a    government   j 
which,  whilst  it  infringes  the  very  right  of 
thought  and  speech,  boasts  of  permitting 
the  liberty  of  the  press,  a  man  is  pilloried 
and  imprisoned  because  he  is  a  deist,  and 
no  one  raises  his  voice  in  the  indignation   i 
of  outraged  humanity.     But  it  is  ever  a 
proof  that  the  falsehood  of  a  proposition  ; 
is   felt   by  those  who  use  coercion,  not 
reasoning,  to  procure  its  admission;  and   ' 
a  dispassionate  observer  would  feel  him- 
self more  powerfully  interested  in  favor 
of  a  man  who,  depending  on  the  truth  of 
his  opinions,  simply  stated  his   reasons 
for    entertaining   them,    than   in   that   of 
his  aggressor  who,  daringly  avowing  his 
unwillingness   or    incapacity    to    answer   j 
them  by  argument,  proceeded  to  repress 
the    energies     and     break    the    spirit    of 
their  promulgator  by  that  torture  and  im-   ■ 
prisonment    whose    infliction    he    could 
command. 

Analogy  seems  to  favor  the  opinion 
that  as,  like  other  systems,  Christianity 
has  arisen  and  augmented,  so  like  them 
it  will  decay  and  perish;  that  as  violence, 
darkness,  and  deceit,  not  reasoning  and 
persuasion,  have  procured  its  admission 
among  mankind,  so,  when  enthusiasm 
has  subsided,  and  time,  that  infallible 
controverter  of  false  opinions,  has  in- 
volved its  pretended  evidences  in  the 
darkness  of  antiquity,  it  will  become  ob- 
solete; that  Milton's  poem  alone  will 
give  permanency  to  the  remembrance  of 
its  absurdities;  and  that  men  will  laugh 
as  heartily  at  grace,  faith,  redemption, 
and  original  sin,  as  they  now  do  at  the 
metamorphoses  of  Jupiter,  the  miracles 
of  Rcmish  saints,  the  efficacy  of  witch- 
craft, and  the  appearance  of  departed 
spirits. 

Had  the  Christian  religion  commenced 
and  continued  by  the  mere  force  of  rea- 
soning   and    persuasion,    the    preceding 


analogy  would  be  inadmissible.  We 
should  never  speculate  on  the  future 
obsoleteness  of  a  system  perfectly  con- 
formable to  nature  and  reason :  it  would 
endure  so  long  as  they  endured;  it 
would  be  a  truth  as  indisputable  as  the 
light  of  the  sun,  the  criminality  of  mur- 
der, and  other  facts,  whose  evidence, 
depending  on  our  organization  and  rela- 
tive situations,  must  remain  acknowl- 
edged as  satisfactory  so  long  as  man  is 
man.  It  is  an  incontrovertible  fact,  the 
consideration  of  which  ought  to  repress 
the  hasty  conclusions  of  credulity,  or 
moderate  its  obstinacy  in  maintaining 
them,  that,  had  the  Jews  not  been  a 
fanatical  race  cf  men,  had  even  the  res- 
olution of  Pontius  Pilate  been  equal  to 
his  candor,  the  Christian  religion  never 
could  have  prevailed,  it  could  not  even 
have  existed :  on  so  feeble  a  thread  hangs 
the  most  cherished  opinion  of  a  sixth  of 
the  human  race  !  When  will  the  vulgar 
learn  humility?  When  will  the  pride  of 
ignorance  blush  at  having  believed  before 
it  could  comprehend? 

Either  the  Christian  religion  is  true,  or 
it  is  false :  if  true,  it  comes  from  God, 
and  its  authenticity  can  admit  of  doubt 
and  dispute  no  further  than  its  omnipo- 
tent author  is  willing  to  allow.  Either 
the  power  or  the  goodness  of  God  is 
called  in  question,  if  he  leaves  those 
doctrines  most  essential  to  the  well-being 
of  man  in  doubt  and  dispute;  the  only 
ones  which,  since  their  promulgation, 
have  been  the  subject  of  unceasing  cavil, 
the  cause  of  irreconcilable  hatred.  If 
God  has  spoken,  why  is  the  universe  not 
cojivinced '  ? 

There  is  this  passage  in  the  Christian 
Scriptures:  "Those  who  obey  not  God, 
and  believe  not  the  Gospel  of  his  Son, 
shall  be  punished  with  everlasting  de- 
struction." This  is  the  pivot  upon 
which  all  religions  turn :  they  all  assume 
that  it  is  in  our  power  to  believe  or  not 
to  believe;  whereas  the  mind  can  only 
believe  that  which  it  thinks  true.  A 
human  being  can  only  be  supposed  ac- 
countable for  those  actions  which  are 
influenced  by  his  will.  But  belief  is 
utterly    distinct    from    and    unconnected 


So 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


with  volition :  it  is  the  apprehension  of 
the  agreement  or  disagreement  of  the 
ideas  that  compose  any  proposition. 
Belief  is  a  passion,  or  involuntary  opera- 
tion of  the  mind,  and,  like  other  pas- 
sions, its  intensity  is  precisely  propor- 
tionate to  the  degrees  of  excitement. 
Volition  is  essential  to  merit  or  demerit. 
But  the  Christian  religion  attaches  the 
highest  possible  degrees  of  merit  and  de- 
merit to  that  which  is  worthy  of  neither, 
and  which  is  totally  unconnected  with 
the  peculiar  faculty  of  the  mind,  whose 
presence  is  essential  to  their  being. 

Christianity  was  intended  to  reform  the 
world:  had  an  all-wise  Being  planned  it, 
nothing  is  more  improbable  than  that  it 
should  have  failed:  omniscience  would 
infallibly  have  foreseen  the  inutility  of  a 
scheme  which  experience  demonstrates, 
to  this  age,  to  have  been  utterly  unsuc- 
cessful. 

Christianity  inculcates  the  necessity  of 
supplicating  the  Deity.  Prayer  may  be 
considered  under  two  points  of  view;  — 
as  an  endeavor  to  change  the  intentions 
of  God,  or  as  a  formal  testimony  of  our 
obedience.  But  the  former  case  sup- 
poses that  the  caprices  of  a  limited  in- 
telligence can  occasionally  instruct  the 
Creator  of  the  world  how  to  regulate  the 
universe;  and  the  latter,  a  certain  de- 
gree of  servility  analogous  to  the  loyalty 
demanded  by  earthly  tyrants.  Obedi- 
ence indeed  is  only  the  pitiful  and  cow- 
ardly egotism  of  him  who  thinks  that  he 
can    do    something   better   than    reason. 

Christianity,  like  all  other  religions, 
rests  upon  miracles,  prophecies,  and 
martyrdoms.  No  religion  ever  existed 
which  had  not  its  prophets,  its  attested 
miracles,  and,  above  all,  crowds  of  dev- 
otees who  would  bear  patiently  the  most 
horrible  tortures  to  prove  its  authen- 
ticity. It  should  appear  that  in  no  cnse 
can  a  discriminating  mind  subscribe  to 
the  genuineness  of  a  miracle.  A  miracle 
is  an  infraction  of  nature's  law,  by  a 
supernatural  cause;  by  a  cause  acting 
beyond  that  eternal  circle  within  which 
all  things  are  included.  Cod  breaks 
through  the  law  of  nature,  that  he  may 
convince   mankind   of  the    truth    of   that 


revelation  which,  in  spite  of  his  precau- 
tions, has  been,  since  its  introduction, 
the  subject  of  unceasing  schism  and  cavil. 

Miracles  resolve  themselves  into  the 
following  question  :  l  — •  Whether  it  is 
more  probable  the  laws  of  nature,  hith- 
erto so  immutably  harmonious,  should 
have  undergone  violation,  or  that  a  man 
should  have  told  a  lie?  Whether  it  is 
more  probable  that  we  are  ignorant  of 
the  natural  cause  of  an  event,  or  that  we 
know  the  supernatural  one?  That,  in 
old  times,  when  the  powers  of  nature 
were  less  known  than  at  present,  a  cer- 
tain set  of  men  were  themselves  deceived, 
or  had  some  hidden  motive  for  deceiving 
others;  or  that  God  begat  a  son,  who, 
in  his  legislation,  measuring  merit  by  be- 
lief, evidenced  himself  to  be  totally  igno- 
rant of  the  powers  of  the  human  mind  — 
of  what  is  voluntary,  and  what  is  the  con- 
trary ? 

We  have  many  instances  of  men  telling 
S  lies;  — none  of  an  infraction  of  nature's 
laws,  those  laws  of  whose  government 
alone  we  have  any  knowledge  or  experi- 
ence. The  records  of  all  nations  afford 
innumerable  instances  of  men  deceiving 
others  either  from  vanity  or  interest,  or 
themselves  being  deceived  by  the  limited- 
ness  of  their  views  and  their  ignorance 
of  natural  causes:  but  where  is  the  ac- 
credited case  of  God  having  come  upon 
earth,  to  give  the  lie  to  his  own  creations? 
There  would  be  something  truly  wonder- 
ful in  the  appearance  of  a  ghost;  but 
the  assertion  of  a  child  that  he  saw  one 
as  he  passed  through  the  churchyard  is 
universally  admitted  to  be  less  miraculous. 

But  even  supposing  that  a  man  should 
raise  a  dead  body  to  life  before  our  eyes, 
and  on  this  fact  rest  his  claim  to  being 
considered  the  son  of  God;  — the  Hu- 
mane Society  restores  drowned  persons, 
and  because  it  makes  no  mystery  of  the 
method  it  employs,  its  members  are  not 
mistaken  for  the  sons  of  God.  All  that  we 
have  a  right  to  infer  from  our  ignorance 
of  the  cause"  of  any  event  is  that  we  do 
not  know  it:  had  the  Mexicans  attended 
to  this  simple  rule  when  they  heard  the 
cannon  of  the  Spaniards,  they  would 
1    Sec  Hume's  Essays,  vol.  ii.  p.  121. 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


81 


not  have  considered  them  as  gods:   the   | 
experiments  of  modern  chemistry  would   I 
have    defied  the  wisest    philosophers  of 
ancient    Greece  and  Rome  to  have  ac- 
counted  for  them  on  natural  principles. 
An  author  of  strong  common  sense   has 
observed   that   "  a  miracle  is  no  miracle 
at  second  hand  ;"   he  might  have  added   j 
that  a  miracle  is  no  miracle  in  any  case; 
for  until  we  are  acquainted  with  all  natu- 
ral causes,  we  have  no  reason  to  imagine 
others. 

There  remains  to  be  considered  an- 
other proof  of  Christianity — Prophecy. 
A  book  is  written  before  a  certain  event, 
in  which  this  event  is  foretold  ;  how 
could  the  prophet  have  foreknown  it 
without  inspiration?  how  could  he  have 
been  inspired  without  God?  The  great- 
est stress  is  laid  on  the  prophecies  of 
Moses  and  Hosea  on  the  dispersion  of 
the  Jews,  and  that  of  Isaiah  concerning 
the  coming  of  the  Messiah.  The  proph- 
ecy of  Moses  is  a  collection  of  every 
possible  cursing  and  blessing  ;  and  it  is 
so  far  from  being  marvellous  that  the  one 
of  dispersion  should  have  been  fulfilled, 
that  it  would  have  been  more  surprising 
if,  out  of  all  these,  none  should  have 
taken  effect.  In  Deuteronomy,  chap, 
xxviii.  ver.  64,  where  Moses  explicitly 
foretells  the  dispersion,  he  states  that 
they  shall  there  serve  gods  of  wood  and 
stone:  "And  the  Lord  shall  scatter  thee 
among  all  people,  from  the  one  end  of  the 
earth  even  to  the  other,  and  there  thou 
shalt  serve  other  gods,  which  neither  thou  I 
n or  thy  fathers  have  hnown,  even  gods  of 
wood  and  stone.''''  The  Jews  are  at  this 
day  remarkably  tenacious  of  their  re- 
ligion. Moses  also  declares  that  they 
shall  be  subjected  to  these  curses  for  dis- 
obedience to  his  ritual  :  "  And  it  shall 
come  to  pass  if  thou  wilt  not  hearken 
unto  the  voice  of  the  Lord  thy  God,  to 
observe  to  do  all  the  commandments 
and  statutes  which  I  command  you  this 
day,  that  all  these  curses  shall  come 
upon  thee  and  overtake  thee."  Is  this 
the  real  reason?  The  third,  fourth,  and 
fifth  chapters  of  Hosea  are  a  piece  of 
immodest  confession.  The  indelicate 
type  might  apply  in  a  hundred  senses  to   1 


a  hundred  things.  The  fifty-third  chap- 
ter of  Isaiah  is  more  explicit,  yet  it  does 
not  exceed  in  clearness  the  oracles  of 
Delphos.  The  historical  proof  that 
Moses,  Isaiah,  and  Hosea  did  write  when 
they  are  said  to  have  written  is  far  from 
being  clear  and  circumstantial. 

But  prophecy  requires  proof  in  its 
character  as  a  miracle  ;  we  have  no  right 
to  suppose  that  a  man  foreknew  future 
events  from  God,  until  it  is  demonstrated 
that  he  neither  could  know  them  by  his 
own  exertions,  nor  that  the  writings 
which  contain  the  prediction  could  pos- 
sibly have  been  fabricated  after  the  event 
pretended  to  be  foretold.  It  is  more 
probable  that  writings,  pretending  to 
divine  inspiration,  should  have  been  fab- 
ricated after  the  fulfilment  of  their  pre- 
tended prediction  than  that  they  should 
have  really  been  divinely  inspired,  when 
we  consider  that  the  latter  supposition 
makes  God  at  once  the  creator  of  the 
human  mind  and  ignorant  of  its  primary 
powers,  particularly  as  we  have  number- 
less instances  of  false  religions,  and 
forged  prophecies  of  things  long  past, 
and  no  accredited  case  of  God  having 
conversed  with  men  directly  or  indirectly. 
It  is  also  possible  that  the  description  of 
an  event  might  have  foregone  its  occur- 
rence :  but  this  is  far  from  being  a  legiti- 
mate proof  of  a  divine  revelation,  as 
many  men,  not  pretending  to  the  charac- 
ter of  a  prophet,  have  nevertheless,  in 
this  sense,  prophesied. 

Lord  Chesterfield  was  never  yet  taken 
for  a  prophet,  even  by  a  bishop,  yet  he 
uttered  this  remarkable  prediction  :  "  The 
despotic  government  of  France  is  screwed 
up  to  the  highest  pitch  ;  a  revolution  is 
fast  approaching  ;  that  revolution,  I  am 
convinced,  will  be  radical  and  sangui- 
nary." This  appeared  in  the  letters  of 
the  prophet  long  before  the  accomplish- 
ment of  this  wonderful  prediction.  Now, 
have  these  particulars  come  to  pass,  or 
have  they  not?  If  they  have,  how  could 
the  Earl  have  foreknown  them  without 
inspiration?  If  we  admit  the  truth  of 
the  Christian  religion  on  testimony  such 
as  this,  we  must  admit,  on  the  same 
strength  of   evidence,   that  God  has    af- 


S2 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAS. 


fixed  the  highest  rewards  to  belief,  and 
the  eternal  tortures  of  the  never-dying 
worm  to  disbelief,  both  of  which  have 
been  demonstrated  to  be  involuntary. 

The  last  proof  of  the  Christian  religion 
depends  on  the  influence  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  Theologians  divide  the  influence 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  into  its  ordinary  and 
extraordinary  modes  of  operation.  The 
latter  is  supposed  to  be  that  which  in- 
spired the  Prophets  and  Apostles  ;  and 
the  former  to  be  the  grace  of  God, 
which  summarily  makes  known  the  truth 
of  his  revelation  to  those  whose  mind 
is  fitted  for  its  reception  by  a  submissive 
perusal  of  his  word.  Persons  convinced 
in  this  manner  can  do  anything  but  ac- 
count for  their  conviction,  describe  the 
time  at  which  it  happened,  or  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  came  upon  them.  It  is 
supposed  to  enter  the  mind  by  other  chan- 
nels than  those  of  the  senses,  and  there- 
fore professes  to  be  superior  to  reason 
founded  on  their  experience. 

Admitting,  however,  the  usefulness  or 
possibility  of  a  divine  revelation,  unless 
we  demolish  the  foundations  of  all  human 
knowledge,  it  is  requisite  that  our  reason 
should  previously  demonstrate  its  genu- 
ineness ;  for,  before  we  extinguish  the 
steady  ray  of  reason  and  common  sense, 
it  is  fit  that  we  should  discover  whether 
we  cannot  do  without  their  assistance, 
whether  or  no  there  be  any  other  which 
may  suffice  to  guide  us  through  the  laby- 
rinth of  life:1  for,  if  a  man  is  to  be  in- 
spired upon  all  occasions,  if  he  is  to  be 
sure  of  a  thing  because  he  is  sure,  if  the 
ordinary  operations  of  the  Spirit  are  not 
to  be  considered  very  extraordinary 
modes  of  demonstration,  if  enthusiasm  is 
to  usurp  the  place  of  proof,  and  madness 
that  of  sanity,  all  reasoning  is  superfluous. 
The  Mahometan  dies  fighting  for  his 
prophet,  the  Indian  immolates  himself 
at  the  chariot-wheels  of  Brahma,  the 
Hottentot  worships  an  insect,  the  Negro 
a  bunch  of  feathers,  the  Mexican  sacri- 
fices human  victims !  Their  degree  of 
conviction  must  certainly  be  very  strong: 
;.t  cannot   arise   from  reasoning,  it    must 

1  See  Locke's  F.st.ay  on  Human  Understand- 
ing, book  iv.  chap,  xix.,  on  Enthusiasm. 


from  feelings,  the  reward  of  their  pray- 
ers. If  each  of  these  should  affirm,  in 
opposition  to  the  strongest  possible  ar- 
guments, that  inspiration  carried  internal 
evidence,  I  fear  their  inspired  brethren, 
the  orthodox  Missionaries,  would  be  so 
uncharitable  as  to  pronounce  them  ob- 
stinate. 

Miracles  cannot  be  received  as  testi- 
monies of  a  disputed  fact,  because  all 
human  testimony  has  ever  been  insuf- 
ficient to  establish  the  possibility  of  mira- 
cles. That  which  is  incapable  of  proof 
itself  is  no  proof  of  anything  else. 
Prophecy  has  also  been  rejected  by  the 
test  of  reason.  Those,  then,  who  have 
been  actually  inspired  are  the  only  true 
believers  in  the  Christian  religion. 

Mox  numine  viso 
Virginei  tumuere  sinus,  innuptaque  mater 
Arcano  stupuit  compleri  viscera  partu, 
Auctorem  paritura  suum.     Mortalia  corda 
Artificem  texcre  poli,  latuitque  sub  uno 
Pectore,    qui    totum    late    complectitur 
orbem. 
Claudian,  Carmen  Paschalc. 

Does  not  so  monstrous  and  disgusting 
an  absurdity  carry  its  own  infamy  and 
refutation  with  itself? 

VIII.  — Page  56. 

Him,  still  from    hope    to    hope    the  bliss 

pursuing, 
Which  from  the  exhaustlcss  lore  of  human 

weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts 

that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift 
J Vilh  self-enshrined  eternity ,  etc. 

Time  is  our  consciousness  of  the  suc- 
cession of  ideas  in  our  mind.  Vivid 
sensation,  of  either  pain  or  pleasure, 
makes  the  time  seem  long,  as  the  com- 
mon phrase  is,  because  it  renders  us  more 
acutely  conscious  of  our  ideas.  If  a  mind 
be  conscious  of  an  hundred  ideas  during 
one  minute,  by  the  clock,  and  of  two 
hundred  during  another,  the  latter  of 
these  spaces  would  actually  occupy  so 
much  greater  extent  in  the  mind  as  two 
exceed    one  in    auantity.      If,-  therefore, 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


83 


the  human  mind,  by  any  future  improve- 
ment of  its  sensibility,  should  become 
conscious  of  an  infinite  number  of  ideas 
in  a  minute,  that  minute  would  be  eter- 
nity. I  do  not  hence  infer  that  the 
actual  space  between  the  birth  and  death 
of  a  man  will  ever  be  prolonged;  but 
that  his  sensibility  is  perfectible,  and  that 
the  number  of  ideas  which  his  mind  is 
capable  of  receiving  is  indefinite.  One 
man  is  stretched  on  the  rack  during 
twelve  hours;  another  sleeps  soundly  in 
his  bed :  the  difference  of  time  perceived 
by  these  two  persons  is  immense;  one 
hardly  will  believe  that  half  an  hour  has 
elapsed,  the  other  could  credit  that  cen- 
turies had  flown  during  his  agony.  Thus, 
the  life  of  a  man  of  virtue  and  talent, 
who  should  die  in  his  thirtieth  year,  is, 
with  regard  to  his  own  feelings,  longer 
than  that  of  a  miserable  priest-ridden 
slave,  who  dreams  out  a  century  of  dul- 
ness.  The  one  has  perpetually  cultivated 
his  mental  faculties,  has  rendered  himself 
master  of  his  thoughts,  can  abstract  and 
generalize  amid  the  lethargy  of  every-day 
business; — the  other  can  slumber  over 
the  brightest  moments  of  his  being,  and 
is  unable  to  remember  the  happiest  hour 
of  his  life.  Perhaps  the  perishing  ephem- 
eron  enjoys  a  longer  life  than  the  tortoise. 

Dark  flood  of  time  ! 
Roll  as  it  listeth  thee  —  I  measure  not 
By  months  or   moments    thy  ambiguous 

course. 
Another  may  stand  by  me  on  the  brink 
And  watch   the  bubble   whirled  beyond 

his  ken 
That  pauses  at  my  feet.     The  sense  of 

love, 
The  thirst  for  action,  and  the  impassioned 

thought 
Prolong  my  being:   if   I  wake  no  more, 
My  life  more  actual  living  will  contain 
Than  some  gray  veteran's  of  the  world's 

cold  school, 
Whose  listless  hours  unprofitably  roll, 
By  one  enthusiast  feeling  unredeemed. 

See  Godwin's  Pol.  Jus.  vol.  i.  p.  411; 
and  Condorcet,  Esquisse  cPun  Tableau 
His  fori  que  des  Progress  de  V  Esprit  Hu- 
main,  epoque  ix. 


VIII.  —  Page  56. 

ATo  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face. 

I  hold  that  the  depravity  of  the  physical 
and  moral  nature  of  man  originated  in 
his  unnatural  habits  of  life.  The  origin 
of  man,  like  that  of  the  universe  of  which 
he  is  a  part,  is  enveloped  in  impenetrable 
mystery.  Plis  generations  either  had  a 
beginning,  or  they  had  not.  The  weight 
of  evidence  in  favor  of  each  of  these 
suppositions  seems  tolerably  equal;  and 
it  is  perfectly  unimportant  to  the  present 
argument  which  is  assumed.  The  lan- 
guage spoken,  however,  by  the  mythology 
of  nearly  all  religions  seems  to  prove 
that  at  some  distant  period  man  forsook 
the  path  of  nature,  and  sacrificed  the 
purity  and  happiness  of  his  being  to  un- 
natural appetites.  The  date  of  this  event 
seems  to  have  also  been  that  of  some 
great  change  in  the  climates  of  the  earth, 
with  which  it  has  an  obvious  correspond- 
ence. The  allegory  of  Adam  and  Eve 
eating  of  the  tree  of  evil,  and  entailing 
upon  their  posterity  the  wrath  of  God  and 
the  loss  of  everlasting  life,  admits  of  no 
other  explanation  than  the  disease  and 
crime  that  have  flowed  from  unnatural 
diet.  Milton  was  so  well  aware  of  this 
that  he  makes  Raphael  thus  exhibit  to 
Adam  the  consequence  of  his  disobedi- 
ence: — 

Immediately  a  place 
Before  his  eyes  appeared,  sad,  noisome, 

dark; 
A  lazar-house  it  seemed ;  wherein  were  laid 
Numbers  of  all  diseased  — all  maladies 
Of    ghastly    spasm,  or    racking    torture, 

qualms 
Of  heart-sick  agony,  all  feverous  kinds, 
Convulsions,  epilepsies,  fierce  catarrhs, 
Intestine  stone  and  ulcer,  colic  pangs, 
Demoniac  frenzy,  moping  melancholy, 
And  moon-struck  madness,   pining  atro- 

Marasmus,  and  wide-wasting  pestilence, 
Dropsies  and  asthmas,  and  joint-racking 
rheums. 

And  how  many  thousands  more  might 
not  be  added  to  this  frightful  catalogue  ! 


NOTES    TO    CUE  EN  MAB. 


The  story  of  Prometheus  is  one  like- 
wise which,  although  universally  admitted 
to  be  allegorical,  has  never  been  satis- 
factorily explained.  Prometheus  stole 
fire  from  heaven,  and  was  chained  for 
this  crime  to  Mount  Caucasus,  where  a 
vulture  continually  devoured  his  liver, 
that  grew  to  meet  its  hunger.  Hesiod 
says  that,  before  the  time  of  Prometheus, 
mankind  were  exempt  from  suffering; 
that  they  enjoyed  a  vigorous  youth,  and 
that  death,  when  at  length  it  came, 
approached  like  sleep,  and  gently  closed 
their  eyes.  Again,  so  general  was  this 
opinion  that  Horace,  a  poet  of  the  Augus- 
tan age,  writes  — 

Audax  omnia  perpeti, 
Gens  humana  ruit  per  vetitum  nefas; 

Audax  Iapeti  genus 
Ignem  fraude  mala  gentibus  intulit : 

Post  ignem  setheria  domo 
Subductum,  macies  et  nova  febrium 

Terris  incubuit  cohors, 
Semotique  prius  tarda  necessitas 

Lethi  corripuit  gradum. 

How  plain  a  language  is  spoken  by  all 
this!  Prometheus  (who  represents  the 
human  race)  effected  some  great  change 
in  the  condition  of  his  nature,  and  applied 
fire  to  culinary  purposes;  thus  inventing 
an  expedient  for  screening  from  his  dis- 
gust the  horrors  of  the  shambles.  From 
this  moment  his  vitals  were  devoured  by 
the  vulture  of  disease.  It  consumed  his  • 
being  in  every  shape  of  its  loathsome  i 
and  infinite  variety,  inducing  the  soul-  j 
quelling  sinkings  of  premature  and  vio- 
lent death.  All  vice  arose  from  the  ruin 
of  healthful  innocence.  Tyranny,  super- 
stition, commerce,  arid  inequality  were 
then  first  known,  when  reason  vainly 
attempted  to  guide  the  wanderings  of 
exacerbated  passion.  I  conclude  this 
part  of  the  subject  with  an  extract  from 
Mr.  Newton's  Defence  of  Vegetable  Regi- 
men, from  whom  I  have  borrowed  this 
interpretation  of  the  fable  of  Prometheus. 
"  Making  allowance  for  such  transposi- 
tion of  the  events  of  the  allegory  as  time 
might  produce  after  the  important  truths 
were  forgotten,  which  this  portion  of  the 


ancient  mythology  was  intended  to  trans- 
mit, the  drift  of  the  fable  seems  to  be  this: 
—  Man  at  his  creation  was  endowed  with 
the  gift  of  perpetual  youth;  that  is,  he 
was  not  formed  to  be  a  sickly  suffering 
creature  as  we  now  see  him,  but  to  enjoy 
health,  and  to  sink  by  slow  degrees  into 
the  bosom  of  his  parent  earth  without 
disease  or  pain.  Prometheus  first  taught 
the  use  of  animal  food  (primus  bovein 
occidit  Prometheus1)  and  of  fire,  with 
which  to  render  it  more  digestible  and 
pleasing  to  the  taste.  Jupiter,  and  the 
rest  of  the  gods,  foreseeing  the  conse- 
quences of  these  inventions,  were  amused 
or  irritated  at  the  short-sighted  devices  of 
the  newly-formed  creature,  and  left  him 
to  experience  the  sad  effects  of  them. 
Thirst,  the  necessary  concomitant  of  a 
flesh  diet"  (perhaps  of  all  diet  vitiated 
by  culinary  preparation),  "ensued;  water 
was  resorted  to,  and  man  forfeited  the 
inestimable  gift  of  health  which  he  had 
received  from  heaven :  he  became  diseased, 
the  partaker  of  a  precarious  existence, 
and  no  longer  descended  slowly  to  his 


But  just  disease  to  luxury  succeeds, 
And  every  death  its  own  avenger  breeds; 
The  fury  passions  from  that  blood  began, 
And  turned  on  man  a  fiercer  savage  — man. 

Man,  and  the  animals  whom  he  has 
infected  with  his  society,  or  depraved  by 
his  dominion,  are  alone  diseased.  The 
wild  hog,  the  mouflon,  the  bison,  and  the 
wolf,  are  perfectly  exempt  from  malady, 
and  invariably  die  either  from  external 
violence  or  natural  old  age.  But  the 
domestic  hog,  the  sheep,  the  cow,  and  the 
dog,  are  subject  to  an  incredible  variety 
of  distempers;  and,  like  the  corrupters  of 
their  nature,  have  physicians  who  thrive 
upon  their  miseries.  The  supereminence 
of  man  is  like  Satan's,  a  supereminence 
of  pain;  and  the  majority  of  his  species, 
doomed  to  penury,  disease,  and  crime, 
have  reason  to  curse  the  untoward  event 
that,  by  enabling  him  to '  communicate 
his  sensations,  raised  him  above  the  level 

1  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  vii.  sect.  57. 

2  Return  to  Nature.     Cadell,  181 1. 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


85 


of  his  fellow  animals.  But  the  steps  that 
have  been  taken  are  irrevocable.  The 
whole  of  human  science  is  comprised  in 
one  question  :  —  How  can  the  advantages 
of  intellect  and  civilization  be  reconciled 
with  the  liberty  and  pure  pleasures  of 
natural  life  ?  lb  >w  can  we  take  the  bene- 
fits and  reject  the  evils  of  the  system, 
which  is  now  interwoven  with  all  the  fibres 
cf  our  being?  —  I  believe  that  abstinence 
from  animal  food  and  spirituous  liquors 
would  in  a  great  measure  capacitate  us  for 
-;he  solution  of  this  important  question. 

It  is  true  that  mental  and  bodily 
derangement  is  attributable  in  part  to 
other  deviations  from  rectitude  and  nature 
than  those  which  concern  diet.  The 
mistakes  cherished  by  society  respecting 
the  connection  of  the  sexes,  whence  the 
misery  and  diseases  of  unsatisfied  celibacy, 
unenjoying  prostitution,  and  the  prema- 
ture arrival  of  puberty,  necessarily  spring; 
the  putrid  atmosphere  of  crowded  cities; 
the  exhalations  of  chemical  processes;  the 
muffling  of  our  bodies  in  superfluous 
apparel;  the  absurd  treatment  of  infants: 
—  all  these  and  innumerable  other  causes 
contribute  their  mite  to  the  mass  of  human 
evil. 

Comparative  anatomy  teaches  us  that 
man  resembles  frugivorous  animals  in 
everything,  and  carnivorous  in  nothing; 
he  has  neither  claws  wherewith  to  seize 
his  prey,  nor  distinct  and  pointed  teeth 
to  tear  the  living  fibre.  A  Mandarin  of 
the  first  class,  with  nails  two  inches  long, 
would  probably  find  them  alone  inefficient 
to  hold  even  a  hare.  After  every  subter- 
fuge of  gluttony,  the  bull  must  be  degraded 
into  the  ox,  and  the  ram  into  the  wether, 
by  an  unnatural  and  inhuman  operation, 
that  the  flaccid  fibre  may  offer  a  fainter 
resistance  to  rebellious  nature.  It  is  only 
by  softening  and  disguising  dead  flesh  by 
culinary  preparation  that  it  is  rendered 
susceptible  of  mastication  or  digestion: 
and  that  the  sight  of  its  bloody  juices  and 
raw  horror  does  not  excite  intolerable 
loathing  and  disgust.  Let  the  advocate 
of  animal  food  force  himself  to  a  decisive 
experiment  on  its  fitness,  and,  as  Plutarch 
recommends,  tear  a  living  lamb  with  his 
teeth,  and  plunging  his  head  into  its  vitals 


slake  his  thirst  with  the  steaming  blood; 
when  fresh  from  the  deed  of  horror,  let 
him  revert  to  the  irresistible  instincts  of 
nature  that  wouH  rise  in  judgment  against 
it,  and  say,  "Nature  formed  me  for  such 
work  as  this."  Then,  and  then  only, 
would  he  be  consistent. 

Man  resembles  no  carnivorous  animal. 
There  is  no  exception,  unless  man  be  one, 
to  the  rule  of  herbivorous  animals  having 
cellulated  colons. 

The  orang-outang  perfectly  resembles 
man  both  in  the  order  and  number  of  his 
teeth.  The  orang-outang  is  the  most 
anthropomorphous  of  the  ape  tribe,  all  of 
which  are  strictly  frugivorous.  There  is 
no  other  species  of  animals,  which  live 
on  different  food,  in  which  this  analogy 
exists.1  In  many  frugivorous  animals, 
the  canine  teeth  are  more  pointed  and 
distinct  than  those  of  man.  The  resem- 
blance also  of  the  human  stomach  to  that 
of  the  orang-outang  is  greater  than  to 
that  of  any  other  animal. 

The  intestines  are  also  identical  with 
those  of  herbivorous  animals,  which  pre- 
sent a  larger  surface  for  absorption  and 
have  ample  and  cellulated  colons.  The 
caecum  also,  though  short,  is  larger  than 
that  of  carnivorous  animals;  and  even 
here  the  orang-outang  retains  its  accus- 
tomed similarity. 

The  structure  of  the  human  frame,  then, 

is   that  of   one  fitted  to  a  pure  vegetable 

diet,  in  every  essential   particular.      It  is 

true  that  the  reluctance  to  abstain  from 

animal  food,  in  those  who  have  been  long 

accustomed  to  its  stimulus,  is  so  great  in 

some  persons   of    weak    minds  as   to  be 

scarcely  overcome;    but    this  is  far  from 

bringing  any  argument  in  its  favor.     A 

lamb,  which  was   fed   for   some  time  on 

flesh  by  a  ship's  crew,  refused  its  natural 

diet  at  the  end  of  the  voyage.     There  are 

numerous    instances     of     horses,     sheep, 

j   oxen,    and    even    wood-pigeons,     having 

J   been  taught  to  live  upon  flesh,  until  they 

!   have  loathed  their  natural  aliment.    Young 

children  evidently  prefer  pastry,  oranges, 

j   apples,    and   other    fruit,   to   the  flesh   of 

I  '  Cuvier,  Lemons  d'Anat.  Comp-  torn.  iii.  pp. 
1  J69i  373,  44^i  465,  4S0.  Rees's  Cyclopaedia,  art 
I    Man. 


85 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


animals;  until,  by  the  gradual  deprava- 
tion of  the  digestive  organs,  the  free  use 
of  vegetables  has  for  a  time  produced 
serious  inconveniences;  for  a  time,  I 
say,  since  there  never  was  an  instance 
wherein  a  change  from  spirituous  liquors 
and  animal  food  to  vegetables  and  pure 
water  has  failed  ultimately  to  invigorate 
the  body,  by  rendering  its  juices  bland 
and  consentaneous,  and  to  restore  to 
the  mind  that  cheerfulness  and  elasticity 
which  not  one  in  fifty  possesses  on  the 
present  system.  A  love  of  strong  liquors 
is  also  with  difficulty  taught  to  infants. 
Almost  every  one  remembers  the  wry 
faces  which  the  first  glass  of  port  pro- 
duced. Unsophisticated  instinct  is  inva- 
riably unerring;  but  to  decide  on  the 
fitness  of  animal  food  from  the  perverted 
appetites  which  its  constrained  adoption 
produces,  is  to  make  the  criminal  a  judge 
in  his  own  cause:  it  is  even  worse,  it  is 
appealing  to  the  infatuated  drunkard  in 
a  question  of  the  salubrity  of  brandy. 

What  is  the  cause  of  morbid  action  in 
the  animal  system?  Not  the  air  we 
breathe,  for  our  fellow  denizens  of  nature 
breathe  the  same  uninjured;  not  the  water 
we  drink  (if  remote  from  the  pollutions 
of  man  and  his  inventions1),  for  the 
animals  drink  it  too;  not  the  earth  we 
tread  upon;  not  the  unobscured  sight  of 
glorious  nature,  in  the  wood,  the  field, 
or  the  expanse  of  sky  and  ocean;  nothing 
that  we  are  or  do  in  common  with  the  un- 
diseased  inhabitants  of  the  forest.  Some- 
thing, then,  wherein  we  differ  from  them: 
our  habit  of  altering  our  food  by  fire,  so 
that  our  appetite  is  no  longer  a  just  cri- 
terion for  the  fitness  of  its  gratification. 
Except  in  children,  there  remain  no  traces 
of  that  instinct  which  determines,  in  all 
other  animals,  what  aliment  is  natural  or 
otherwise;  and  so  perfectly  obliterated 
are  they  in  the  reasoning  adults  of  our 
species,  that  it  has  become  necessary  to 
urge  considerations  drawn  from  compara- 

1  The  necessity  of  resorting  to  some  means  of 
purifying  water,  and  the  disease  which  arises  from 
its  adulteration  in  civilized  countries,  is  sufficiently 
apparent.  See  Dr.  Lambe's  Reports  on  Cancer. 
I  do  not  assert  that  the  use  of  water  is  in  itself 
unnatural,  but  that  the  unperverted  palate  would 
swallow  no  liquid  capable  of  occasioning  disease. 


tive  anatomy  to  prove  that  we  are  natu- 
rally frugivorous. 

Crirrfe  is  madness.  Madness  is  disease. 
Whenever  the  cause  of  disease  shall  be 
discovered,  the  root,  from  which  all  vice 
and  misery  have  so  long  overshadowed 
the  globe,  will  lie  bare  to  the  axe.  All 
the  exertions  of  man,  from  that  moment, 
may  be  considered  as  tending  to  the  clear 
profit  of  his  species.  No  sane  mind  in  a 
sane  body  resolves  upon  a  real  crime.  It 
is  a  man  of  violent  passions,  bloodshot 
eyes,  and  swollen  veins,  that  alone  can 
grasp  the  knife  of  murder.  The  system 
of  a  simple  diet  promises  no  Utopian 
advantages.  It  is  no  mere  reform  of 
legislation,  whilst  the  furious  passions  and 
evil  propensities  of  the  human  heart,  in 
which  it  had  its  origin,  are  still  unassuaged. 
It  strikes  at  the  root  of  all  evil,  and  is  an 
experiment  which  may  be  tried  with  suc- 
cess, not  alone  by  nations,  but  by  small 
societies,  families,  and  even  individuals. 
In  no  cases  has  a  return  to  vegetable  diet 
produced  the  slightest  injury;  in  most  it 
has  been  attended  with  changes  undeni- 
ably beneficial.  Should  ever  a  physician 
be  born  with  the  genius  of  Locke,  I  am 
persuaded  that  he  might  trace  all  bodily 
and  mental  derangements  to  our  un- 
natural habits,  as  clearly  as  that  philoso- 
pher has  traced  all  knowledge  to  sensation. 
What  prolific  sources  of  disease  are  not 
those  mineral  and  vegetable  poisons  that 
have  been  introduced  for  its  extirpation  ! 
How  many  thousands  have  become  mur- 
derers and  robbers,  bigots  and  domestic 
tyrants,  dissolute  and  abandoned  adven- 
turers, from  the  use  of  fermented  liquors; 
who,  had  they  slaked  their  thirst  only 
with  pure  water,  would  have  lived  but  to 
diffuse  the  happiness  of  their  own  unper- 
verted feelings!  How  many  groundless 
opinions  and  absurd  institutions  have  not 
received  a  general  sanction  from  the  sot- 
tishness  and  intemperance  of  individuals  ! 
Who  will  assert  that,  had  the  populace  of 
Paris  satisfied  their  hunger  at  the  ever- 
furnished  table  of  vegetable  nature,  they 
would  have  lent  their  brutal  suffrage 
to  the  proscription-list  of  Robespierre? 
Could  a  set  of  men,  whose  passions  were 
not  perverted  by  unnatural  stimuli,  look 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


with  coolness  on  an  auto  da  fe  ?  Is  it  to 
be  believed  that  a  being  of  gentle  feelings, 
rising  from  his  meal  of  roots,  would  take 
delight  in  sports  of  blood?  Was  Nero  a 
man  of  temperate  life?  Could  you  read 
calm  health  in  his  cheek,  flushed  with 
ungovernable  propensities  of  hatred  for 
the  human  race?  Did  Muley  Ismail's 
pulse  beat  evenly,  was  his  skin  trans- 
parent, did  his  eyes  beam  with  health- 
fulness,  and  its  invariable  concomitants, 
cheerfulness  and  benignity?  Though 
history  has  decided  none  of  these  ques- 
tions, a  child  could  not  hesitate  to  answer 
in  the  negative.  Surely  the  bile-suffused 
cheek  of  Buonaparte,  his  wrinkled  brow, 
and  yellow  eye,  the  ceaseless  inquietude 
of  his  nervous  system,  speak  no  less  plainly 
the  character  of  his  unresting  ambition 
than  his  murders  and  his  victories.  It  is 
impossible,  had  Buonaparte  descended 
from  a  race  of  vegetable  feeders,  that  he 
could  have  had  either  the  inclination  or 
the  power  to  ascend  the  throne  of  the 
Bourbons.  The  desire  of  tyranny  could 
scarcely  be  excited  in  the  individual,  the 
power  to  tyrannize  would  certainly  not 
be  delegated  by  a  society  neither  frenzied 
by  inebriation  nor  rendered  impotent  and 
irrational  by  disease.  Pregnant  indeed 
with  inexhaustible  calamity  is  the  renuncia- 
tion of  instinct,  as  it  concerns  our  physical 
nature;  arithmetic  cannot  enumerate,  nor 
reason  perhaps  suspect,  the  multitudinous 
sources  of  disease  in  civilized  life.  Even 
common  water,  that  apparently  innoxious 
pabulum,  when  corrupted  by  the  filth  of 
populous  cities,  is  a  deadly  and  insidious 
destroyer.1  Who  can  wonder  that  all  the 
inducements  held  out  by  God  himself  in 
the  Bible  to  virtue  should  have  been 
vainer  than  a  nurse's  tale;  and  that  those 
dogmas,  by  which  he  has  there  excited 
and  justified  the  most  ferocious  propensi- 
ties, should  have  alone  been  deemed  essen- 
tial; whilst  Christians  are  in  the  daily 
practice  of  all  those  habits  which  have 
infected  with  disease  and  crime,  not  only 
the  reprobate  sons,  but  these  favored 
children  of  the  common  Father's  love? 
Omnipotence  itself  could  not  save  them 

1  Lambe's  Reports  on  Cancer. 


from    the   consequences  of    this  original 
and  universal  sin. 

There  is  no  disease,  bodily  or  mental, 
which  adoption  of  vegetable  diet  and 
pure  water  has  not  infallibly  mitigated, 
wherever  the  experiment  has  been  fairly 
tried.  Debility  is  gradually  converted 
into  strength;  disease  into  health  fulness; 
madness,  in  all  its  hideous  variety,  from 
the  ravings  of  the  fettered  maniac  to  the 
unaccountable  irrationalities  of  ill-tem 
per,  that  make  a  hell  of  domestic  life, 
into  a  calm  and  considerate  evenness  of 
temper,  that  alone  might  offer  a  certain 
pledge  of  the  future  moral  reformation 
of  society.  On  a  natural  system  of  diet, 
old  age  would  be  our  last  and  our  only 
malady;  the  term  of  our  existence  would 
be  protracted;  we  should  enjoy  life,  and 
no  longer  preclude  others  from  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it;  all  sensational  delights  would 
be  infinitely  more  exquisite  and  perfect; 
the  very  sense  of  being  w»uld  then  be  a 
continued  pleasure,  such  as  we  now  feel 
it  in  some  few  and  favored  moments  of 
our  youth.  By  all  that  is  sacred  in  our 
hopes  for  the  human  race,  I  conjure  those 
who  love  happiness  and  truth  to  give  a 
fair  trial  to  the  vegetable  system.  Rea- 
soning is  surely  superfluous  on  a  subject 
whose  merits  an  experience  of  six  months 
would  set  forever  at  rest.  But  it  is 
only  among  the  enlightened  and  benevo- 
lent that  so  great  a  sacrifice  of  appetite 
and  prejudice  can  be  expected,  even 
though  its  ultimate  excellence  should  not 
admit  of  dispute.  It  is  found  easier,  by 
the  short-sighted  victims  of  disease,  to 
palliate  their  torments  by  medicine  than 
to  prevent  them  by  regimen.  The  vul- 
gar of  all  ranks  are  invariably  sensual 
and  indocile;  yet  I  cannot  but  feel  my- 
self persuaded  that  when  the  benefits  of 
vegetable  diet  are  mathematically  proved, 
when  it  is  as  clear  that  those  who  live 
naturally  are  exempt  from  premature 
death  as  that  nine  is  not  one,  the  most 
sottish  of  mankind  will  feel  a  preference 
towards  a  long  and  tranquil,  contrasted 
with  a  short  and  painful,  life.  On  the 
average,  out  of  sixty  persons  four  die  in 
three  years.  Hopes  are  entertained  that, 
in  April,  1814,  a  statement  will  be  given 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


that  sixty  persons,  all  having  lived  more 
than  three  years  on  vegetables  and  pure 
water,  are  then  in  perfect  health.  More 
than  two  years  have  now  elapsed;  not 
one  of  them  has  died ;  no  such  example 
will  be  found  in  any  sixty  persons  taken 
at  random.  Seventeen  persons  of  all 
ages  (the  families  of  Dr.  Lambe  and  Mr. 
Newton)  have  lived  for  seven  years  on 
this  diet  without  a  death,  and  almost 
without  the  slightest  illness.  Surely, 
when  we  consider  that  some  of  these 
were  infants,  and  one  a  martyr  to  asthma 
now  nearly  subdued,  we  may  challenge 
any  seventeen  persons  taken  at  random 
in  this  city  to  exhibit  a  parallel  case. 
Those  who  may  have  been  excited  to 
question  the  rectitude  of  established 
habits  of  diet,  by  these  loose  remarks, 
should  consult  Mr.  Newton's  luminous 
and  eloquent  essay.1 

When  these  proofs  come  fairly  before 
the  world,  and  are  clearly  seen  by  all 
who  understand  arithmetic,  it  is  scarcely 
possible  that  abstinence  from  aliments 
demonstrably  pernicious  should  not  be- 
come universal.  In  proportion  to  the 
number  of  proselytes,  so  will  be  the 
weight  of  evidence;  and  when  a  thou- 
sand persons  can  be  produced,  living  on 
vegetables  and  distilled  water,  who  have 
to  dread  no  disease  but  old  age,  the 
world  will  be  compelled  to  regard  ani- 
mal flesh  and  fermented  liquors  as  slow 
but  certain  poisons.  The  change  which 
would  be  produced  by  simpler  habits  on 
political  economy  is  sufficiently  remark- 
able. The  monopolizing  eater  of  ani- 
mal flesh  would  no  longer  destroy  his 
constitution  by  devouring  an  acre  at  a 
meal,  and  many  loaves  of  bread  would 
cease  to  contribute  to  gout,  madness  and 
apoplexy,  in  the  shape  of  a  pint  of  por- 
ter, or  a  dram  of  gin,  when  appeasing 
the  long-protracted  famine  of  the  hard- 
working peasant's  hungry  babes.  The 
quantity  of  nutritious  vegetable  matter, 
consumed  in  fattening  the  carcass  of  an 
ox,  would  afford  ten  times  the  suste- 
nance, undepraving  indeed,  and  incapa- 
ble  of   generating    disease,    if    gathered 

1  Return  to  Nature,  or  Defence  of  \regctablc 
Regimen-     Cadell,  1811. 


immediately  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
The  most  fertile  districts  of  the  habitable 
globe  are  now  actually  cultivated  by  men 
for  animals,  at  a  delay  and  waste  of  ali- 
ment absolutely  incapable  of  calculation. 
It  is  only  the  wealthy  that  can,  to  any 
great  degree,  even  now,  indulge  the  un- 
natural craving  for  dead  flesh,  and  they 
pay  for  the  greater  license  of  the  privi- 
lege by  subjection  to  supernumerary  dis- 
eases. Again,  the  spirit  of  the  nation 
that  should  take  the  lead  in  this  great 
reform  would  insensibly  become  agricul- 
tural; commerce,  with  all  its  vice,  self- 
ishness, and  corruption,  would  gradually 
decline;  more  natural  habits  would  pro- 
duce gentler  manners,  and  the  excessive 
complication  of  political  relations  would 
be  so  far  simplified  that  every  individual 
might  feel  and  understand  why  he  loved 
his  country,  and  took  a  personal  interest 
in  its  welfare.  How  would  England, 
for  example,  depend  on  the  caprices  of 
foreign  rulers  if  she  contained  within 
herself  all  the  necessaries,  and  despised 
whatever  they  possessed  of  the  luxuries, 
of  life?  How  could  they  starve  her  into 
compliance  with  their  views?  Of  what 
consequence  would  it  be  that  they  refused 
to  take  her  woollen  manufactures,  when 
large  and  fertile  tracts  of  the  island 
ceased  to  be  allotted  to  the  waste  of  pas- 
turage? On  a  natural  system  of  diet  we 
should  require  no  spices  from  India:  no 
wines  from  Portugal,  Spain,  France,  or 
Madeira:  none  of  those  multitudinous 
articles  of  luxury,  for  which  every  cor- 
ner of  the  globe  is  rifled,  and  which  are 
the  causes  of  so  much  individual  rival- 
ship,  such  calamitous  and  sanguinary 
national  disputes.  In  the  history  of 
modern  times,  the  avarice  of  commercial 
monopoly,  no  less  than  the  ambition  of 
weak  and  wicked  chiefs,  seems  to  have 
fomented  the  universal  discord,  to  have 
added  stubbornness  to  the  mistakes  of 
cabinets,  and  indocility  to  the  infatua- 
tion of  the  people.  Let  it  ever  be  re- 
membered that  it  is  the  direct  influence  of 
commerce  to  make  the  interval  between 
the  richest  and  the  poorest  man  wider 
and  more  unconquerable.  Let  it  be 
remembered  that  it  is  a  foe  to  everything 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


89 


of  real  worth  and  excellence  in  the 
human  character.  The  odious  and  dis- 
gusting aristocracy  of  wealth  is  built 
upon  the  ruins  of  all  that  is  good  in 
chivalry  or  republicanism;  and  luxury  is 
the  forerunner  of  a  barbarism  scarce  ca- 
pable of  cure.  Is  it  impossible  to  realize 
a  state  of  society,  where  all  the  energies 
of  man  shall  be  directed  to  the  produc- 
tion of  his  solid  happiness?  Certainly, 
if  this  advantage  (the  object  of  all  polit- 
ical speculation)  be  in  any  degree  attain- 
able, it  is  attainable  only  by  a  community 
which  holds  out  no  factitious  incentives 
to  the  avarice  and  ambition  of  the  few, 
and  which  is  internally  organized  for 
the  liberty,  security,  and  comfort  of  the 
many.  None  must  be  intrusted  with 
power  (and  money  is  the  completest 
species  of  power)  who  do  not  stand 
pledged  to  use  it  exclusively  for  the  gen- 
eral benefit.  But  the  use  of  animal  flesh 
and  fermented  liquors  directly  militates 
with  this  equality  of  the  rights  of  man. 
The  peasant  cannot  gratify  these  fashion- 
able cravings  without  leaving  his  family 
to  starve.  Without  disease  and  war, 
those  sweeping  curtailers  of  population, 
pasturage  would  include  a  waste  too  great 
to  be  afforded.  The  labor  requisite  to 
support  a  family  is  far  lighter 1  than  is 
usually  supposed.  The  peasantry  work, 
not  only  for  themselves,  but  for  the  aris- 
tocracy, the  army,  and  the  manufac- 
turers. 

The  advantage  of  a  reform  in  diet  is 
obviously  greater  than  that  of  any  other. 
It  strikes  at  the  root  of  the  evil.  To 
remedy  the  abuses  of  legislation,  before 
we  annihilate  the  propensities  by  which 
they  are  produced,  is  to  suppose  that  by 
taking  away  the  effect  the  cause  will 
cease  to  operate.  But  the  efficacy  of 
this  system  depends  entirely  on  the  pros- 

1  It  has  come  under  the  author's  experience 
that  some  of  the  workmen  on  an  embankment  in 
North  Wales,  who.  in  consequence  of  the  inabil- 
ity of  the  proprietor  to  pay  them,  seldom  received 
their  wages,  have  supported  large  families  by  cul- 
tivating small  spots  of  sterile  ground  by  moon- 
light. In  the  notes  to  Pratt's  Poem,  "  Bread,  or 
the  Poor,"  is  an  account  of  an  industrious  laborer 
who,  by  working  in  a  small  garden,  before  and 
after  his  day's  task,  attained  to  an  enviable  state 
of  independence. 


elytism  of  individuals,  and  grounds  its 
merits,  as  a  benefit  to  the  community, 
upon  the  total  change  of  the  dietetic 
habits  in  its  members.  It  proceeds  se- 
curely from  a  number  of  particular  cases 
to  one  that  is  universal,  and  has  this  ad- 
vantage over  the  contrary  mode,  that 
one  error  does  not  invalidate  all  that  has 
gone  before. 

Let  not  too  much,  however,  be  ex 
pected  from  this  system.  The  healthiest 
among  us  is  not  exempt  from  hereditary 
disease.  The  most  symmetrical,  athletic, 
and  long-lived  is  a  being  inexpressibly 
inferior  to  what  he  would  have  been,  had 
not  the  unnatural  habits  of  his  ancestors 
accumulated  for  him  a  certain  portion  of 
malady  and  deformity.  In  the  most  per- 
fect specimen  of  civilized  man,  something 
is  still  found  wanting  by  the  physiologi- 
cal critic.  Can  a  return  to  nature,  then, 
instantaneously  eradicate  predispositions 
that  have  been  slowly  taking  root  in  the 
silence  of  innumerable  ages? — Indubi- 
tably not.  All  that  I  contend  for  is,  that 
from  the  moment  of  the  relinquishing  all 
unnatural  habits  no  new  disease  is  gen- 
erated; and  that  the  predisposition  to 
hereditary  maladies  gradually  perishes,  for 
want  of  its  accustomed  supply.  In  cases 
of  consumption,  cancer,  gout,  asthma, 
and  scrofula,  such  is  the  invariable  ten- 
dency of  a  diet  of  vegetables  and  pure 
water. 

Those  who  may  be  induced  by  these 
remarks  to  give  the  vegetable  system  a 
j    fair  trial,  should,  in  the  first  place,  date 
the  commencement  of  their  practice  from 
the  moment  of  their  conviction.      All  de- 
pends  upon  breaking   through    a   perni- 
cious habit  resolutely  and  at  once.     Dr. 
Trotter x    asserts    that    no   drunkard   was 
!   ever  reformed  by  gradually  relinquishing 
his  dram.     Animal  flesh,  in  its  effects  on 
the    human   stomach,   is  analogous  to   a 
dram.      It  is  similar  in  the  kind,  though 
differing  in  the  degree,  of  its  operation. 
The    proselyte    to   a    pure    diet   must   be 
!   warned  to  expect  a  temporary  diminution 
of   muscular    strength.     The  subtraction 
;   of    a    powerful    stimulus   will    suffice    to 
j   account   for   this   event.      But  it    is  only 
I        1  See  Trotter  on  the  Nervous  Temperament. 


go 


NOTES    TO    QUEEN  MAB. 


temporary,  and  is  succeeded  by  an  equable 
capability  for  exertion,  far  surpassing  his 
former  various  and  fluctuating  strength. 
Above  all,  he  will  acquire  an  easiness  of 
breathing,  by  which  such  exertion  is  per- 
formed, with  a  remarkable  exemption 
from  that  painful  and  difficult  panting 
now  felt  by  almost  every  one  after  hastily 
climbing  an  ordinary  mountain.  He 
will  be  equally  capable  of  bodily  exer- 
tion, or  mental  application,  after  as 
before  his  simple  meal.  He  will  feel 
none  of  the  narcotic  effects  of  ordinary 
diet.  Irritability,  the  direct  consequence 
of  exhausting  stimuli,  would  yield  to  the 
power  of  natural  and  tranquil  impulses. 
He  will  no  longer  pine  under  the  lethargy 
of  ennui,  that  unconquerable  weariness 
of  life,  more  to  be  dreaded  than  death 
itself.  He  will  escape  the  epidemic 
madness,  which  broods  over  its  own  in- 
jurious notions  of  the  Deity,  and  "real- 
izes the  hell  that  priests  and  beldams 
feign."  Every  man  forms,  as  it  were, 
his  god  from  his  own  character;  to  the 
divinitv  of  one  of  simple  habits  no  offer- 
ing would  be  more  acceptable  than  the 
happiness  of  his  creatures.  He  would 
be  incapable  of  hating  or  persecuting 
others  for  the  love  of  God.  lie  will  find, 
moreover,  a  system  of  simple  diet  to  be 
a  system  of  perfect  epicurism.  He  will 
no  longer  be  incessantly  occupied  in 
blunting  and  destroying  those  organs 
from  which  he  expects  his  gratification. 
The  pleasures  of  taste  to  be  derived  from 
a  dinner  of  potatoes,  beans,  peas,  tur- 
nips, lettuces,  with  a  dessert  of  apples, 
gooseberries,  strawberries,  currants,  rasp- 
berries, and  in  winter,  oranges,  apples 
and  pears,  is  far  greater  than  is  supposed. 
Those  who  wait  until  they  can  eat  this 
plain  fare  with  the  sauce  of  appetite  will 
scarcely  join  with  the  hypocritical  sen- 
sualist at  a  lord-mayor's  feast,  who  de- 
claims against  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
Solomon  kept  a  thousand  concubines, 
and  owned  in  despair  that  all  was  vanity. 
The  man  whose  happiness  is  constituted 
by  the  society  of  one  amiable  woman 
would  find  some  difficulty  in  sympathiz- 
ing with  the  disappointment  of  this  ven- 
erable debauchee. 


I  address  myself  not  only  to  the  young 
enthusiast,  the  ardent  devotee  of  truth 
and  virtue,  the  pure  and  passionate  mor- 
alist, yet  unvitiated  by  the  contagion  of 

I  the  world.     He  will  embrace  a  pure  sys- 

;  tern,  from  its  abstract  truth,  its  beauty, 
its  simplicity,  and  its  promise  of  wide- 
extended  benefit;  unless  custom  has 
turned  poison  into  food,  he  will  hate  the 

i  brutal  pleasures  of  the  chase  by  instinct; 
it  will  be  a  contemplation  full  of  horror, 
and  disappointment  to  his  mind,  that 
beings  capable  of  the  gentlest  and  most 

I  admirable  sympathies  should  take  delight 
in  the  death-pangs  and  last  convulsions 
of  dying  animals.  The  elderly  man, 
whose  youth  has  been  poisoned  by  in- 
temperance, or  who  has  lived  with  appar- 
ent moderation,  and  is  afflicted  with  a 
variety  of  painful  maladies,  would  find 
his  account  in  a  beneficial  change  pro- 
duced without  the  risk  of  poisonous 
medicines.  The  mother,  to  whom  the 
perpetual  restlessness  of  disease  and 
unaccountable  deaths  incident  to  her 
children  are  the  causes  of  incurable  un- 
happiness,  would  on  this  diet  experience 
the  satisfaction  of  beholding  their  per- 
petual healths  and  natural  playfulness.1 
The  most  valuable  lives  are  daily  de- 
stroyed by  diseases  that  it  is  dangerous 
to    palliate    and    impossible   to   cure   by 

j  medicine.  How  much  longer  will  man 
continue  to  pimp  for  the  gluttony  of 
Death,  his  most  insidious,  implacable, 
and  eternal  foe? 


1  See  Mr.  Newton's  book.  His  children  are 
the  most  beautiful  and  healthy  creatures  it  is 
possible  to  conceive  :  the  girls  are  perfect  models 
for  a  sculptor;  their  dispositions  are  also  the 
most  gentle  and  conciliating  ;  the  judicious  treat- 
ment, which  they  experience  in  other  points, 
may  be  a  correlative  cause  of  this.  In  the  first 
five  wars  of  their  life,  of  1^,000  children  that  are 
born,  7,500  die  of  various  diseases  :  and  how 
many  more  of  those  that  survive  are  not  rendered 
miserable  by  maladies  not  immediately  mortal? 
The  quality  and  quantity  of  a  woman's  milk  are 
materially  injured  by  the  use  of  dead  tlesh.  In 
an  island  near  Iceland,  where  no  vegetables  are 
to  be  got,  the  children  invariably  die  of  tetanus 
before  they  are  three  weeks  old.  and  the  popula- 
tion is  supplied  from  the  mainland.  —  Sir  G. 
Mackenzie's  Hist,  of  Iceland.  See  also  Emile, 
j    chap.  i.  pp.  53.  SU  56- 


NOTES    TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


'AAAri  SpoKovrag  dypiovg  KaXtiri,  k<i\  napAa- 
Xtig,  K(ii  liovTag,  avroi  <5f  piaiipoi'iire  fig  £>u6T>iTa, 
KaTaXntiivreg  iKcivo-g  ovdtv '  iKtivoig  ylv  yap  b 
(pdvog  Tpotpf),  fju'tv  (5'  o^ov  icriv.  .  .  .  "Or<  yap 
ovk  £<jtiv  dvOpwxif)  kutu  tybatv  to  oapK0(j>ayeh', 
irp&Tov  /jh'  i'itto  tu>i>  owpdriov  hrjkov-ai  Tug 
KiiTaaicivijs.  Owtri  yap  coiki  to  di'Opwnov 
crti/xii  t&v  ini  aapKoipaytq  yeyovoTwv,  oil  ypvirtnijg 
^fi'/yiif,  oi)K  o^vTtjs  ovv^og,  ov  Tpa^vTijg  ddovriov 
npdcrtcrrtv,  ov  koiXiag  ivtov'ui  Kai  irvevfxaTog 
depnOTtjs,  rpi'^ai  Kill  KaTipyaauaOat  Suviitij 
to  tfapv  Kai  Kptiofiig'  dAA'  avToOtv  >)  (pvcrig  tj; 
kcioTtjTi  tG)v  6&6vT<j)i>f  Kai  r;j  afjUKOOT/jTi  tou 
GTouaTog,  Kai  tq  jxakaKOTijTi  rrji  y/.dxJoris,  Kai  rjj" 
irpbg  iri'^iv  dfjLi3/.vT>jTi  tou  Tzvei/JiaTog,  i^dpWTai 
tt)v     aapKotyayiav.  Rl     61     Xiyitg     ireipVKivat 

oiaVTOv  ini  Tota'vTiiv  ihioSr\v,  b  fiovXei  <paytiv, 
■np&Tov  avrb;  diroKTdvov  '  d/.X'  avTog  Sid  qiavrov, 
fifi  ^pijO-QfieiOi  Koxi&i,  /i?/<3*  Tvaapioj  rivi,  /u>/<5f 
TZfXiKii  '  aXXd,  tl>g  /.vkoi  Kai  dpKTui  Kai  XeovTig  auroi 
*aa  loQiovai  ipovevovaiv,  aveXe  S/jyuun  fiovv,  rj 
oro/iiiTi  aiiv,  rj  dpva  r\  Xaywdv  hiappr^ov,  Kai 
ipayf  Tipoonfaibv  en  Quivrog  wj  eKUva.  .  .  . 
'Huilg  ct  ovrujg  tv  TiZ  uiaiipdvip  Tpvip&piv,  wcr7-' 
ityov  to  Kpiag  ■npooayopivop.iv,  ftr'  Sipwv  irpbg 
avTb  to  Kpiag  hibpfOa,  dvafxiyvvvTig  eXaiov, 
olvov,  ufXi,  ydpov,  o^og,  lfivauaai  YvpiaKolg, 
'•^Pjia^tKolg,  ll>o-Ktp  ovTwg  vfKpbv  ivraipiafyvTfg. 
Kai  yap  o'vTUig  avruJv  SiaXuQevTwv  Kai  uaXayOiv- 
to)v  Kai  toottov  Tivii  KpioGai:£vTU>v  epyov  igti  Tt]v 
■kI^iv  KoaTrjaat.  Ka\  6uiKpaT7]6(io-r}g  6(  deivdg 
PapbrTjTag  fu-Koui  Kai  voawo'etg  dntipiag.  .  .  . 
OijTU)  to  npu>Tov  ayptdv  ti  C,S>ov  rfiptodr]  koI 
KaKovoyov  elr'  opvig  Tig  rj  i\0vg  i'iZkv(tto'  Kat 
yivdp(i'oi>,  ovTd)  Kai  trooffie?.  Trjaav  tv  iKfivoig  to 
povtKov  f7ri  (io'iiv  ipy&Ttiv  7/?.0e,  Kill  Tb  Kdouoiv 
TrpopaTov,  Kill  t'ov  oiKOVpov  dAiKTobva  •  KUI 
Kara  uikoov  ovtoi  rf)v  d-K?.r}<jTiav  TovtJJaavTfg,  iirl 
aipaydg  avOpu'yirwv,  Kat  (bovovg,  Kai  -noXfjiovg 
irporjWov.  — YIXovt.  rrepi  Tfjg  YapKoipayiag. 


NOTE   ON   QUEEN    MAB,    BY   MRS. 
SHELLEY. 

Shelley  was  eighteen  when  he  wrote 
"Queen  Mab;"  he  never  published  it. 
When  it  was  written,  he  had  come  to  the 
decision  that  he  was  too  young  to  be  a 
"judge  of  controversies;"  and  he  was 
desirous  of  acquiring  "  that  sobriety  of 
spirit  which  is  the  characteristic  of  true 


heroism."  But  he  never  doubted  the 
truth  or  utility  of  his  opinions;  and,  in 
printing  and  privately  distributing  "Queen 
Mab,"  he  believed  that  he  should  further 
their  dissemination,  without  occasioning 
the  mischief  either  to  others  or  himself 
that  might  arise  from  publication.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  he  would  himself  have 
admitted  it  into  a  collection  of  his  works. 
His  severe  classical  taste,  refined  by  the 
constant  study  of  the  Greek  poets,  might 
have  discovered  defects  that  escape  the 
ordinary  reader;  and  the  change  his 
opinions  underwent  in  many  points  would 
have  prevented  him  from  putting  forth 
the  speculations  of  his  boyish  days.  But 
the  poem  is  too  beautiful  in  itself,  and 
far  too  remarkable  as  the  production  of 
a  boy  of  eighteen,  to  allow  of  its  being 
passed  over:  besides  that,  having  been 
frequently  reprinted,  the  omission  would 
be  vain.  In  the  former  edition  certain 
portions  were  left  out,  as  shocking  the 
general  reader  from  the  violence  of  their 
attack  on  religion.  I  myself  had  a  pain- 
ful feeling  that  such  erasures  might  be 
looked  upon  as  a  mark  of  disrespect 
towards  the  author,  and  am  glad  to  have 
the  opportunity  of  restoring  them.  The 
notes  also  are  reprinted  entire  - —  not  be- 
cause they  are  models  of  reasoning  or 
lessons  of  truth,  but  because  Shelley 
wrote  them,  and  that  all  that  a  man  at 
once  so  distinguished  and  so  excellent 
ever  did  deserves  to  be  preserved.  The 
alterations  his  opinions  underwent  ought 
to  be  recorded,  for  they  form  his  history. 
A  series  of  articles  was  published  in 
the  /Vera  Monthly  Magazine  during  the 
autumn  of  the  year  1832,  written  by  a 
man  of  great  talent,  a  fellow-collegian 
and  warm  friend  of  Shelley  :  they  describe 
admirably  the  state  of  his  mind  during 
his  collegiate  life.  Inspired  with  ardor 
for  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  en- 
dowed with  the  keenest  sensibility  and 
with  the  fortitude  of  a  martyr,  Shelley 
came  among  his  fellow-creatures,  con- 
gregated for  the  purposes  of  education, 
like  a  spirit  from  another  sphere;  too 
delicately  organized  for  the  rough  treat- 
ment man  uses  towards  man,  especially 
in  the  season  of  youth,  and  too  resolute 


92 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


in  carrying  out  his  own  sense  of  good  and 
justice,  not  to  become  a  victim.  To  a 
devoted  attachment  to  those  he  loved  he 
added  a  determined  resistance  to  oppres- 
sion. Refusing  to  fag  at  Eton,  he  was 
treated  with  revolting  cruelty  by  masters 
and  boys :  this  roused  instead  of  taming 
his  spirit,  and  he  rejected  the  duty  of  obe- 
dience when  it  was  enforced  by  menaces 
and  punishment.  To  aversion  to  the 
society  of  his  fellow-creatures,  such  as 
he  found  them  when  collected  together 
in  societies,  where  one  egged-on  the  other 
to  acts  of  tyranny,  was  joined  the  deepest 
sympathy  and  compassion;  while  the  at- 
tachment he  felt  for  individuals,  and  the 
admiration  with  which  he  regarded  their 
powers  and  their  virtues,  led  him  to  en- 
tertain a  high  opinion  of  the  perfectibil- 
ity of  human  nature;  and  he  believed 
that  all  could  reach  the  highest  grade  of 
moral  improvement,  did  not  the  customs 
and  prejudices  of  society  foster  evil  pas- 
sions and  excuse  evil  actions. 

The  oppression  which,  trembling  at 
every  nerve  yet  resolute  to  heroism,  it 
was  his  ill-fortune  to  encounter  at  school 
and  at  college,  led  him  to  dissent  in  all 
things  from  those  whose  arguments  were 
blows,  whose  faith  appeared  to  engender 
blame  and  hatred.  "During  my  exist- 
ence," he  wrote  to  a  friend  in  1812,  "I 
have  incessantly  speculated,  thought,  and 
read."  His  readings  were  not  always 
well  chosen;  among  them  were  the  works 
of  the  French  philosophers :  as  far  as 
metaphysical  argument  went,  he  tempo- 
rarily became  a  convert.  At  the  same 
time,  it  was  the  cardinal  article  of  his 
faith  that,  if  men  were  but  taught  and 
induced  to  treat  their  fellows  with  love, 
charity,  and  equal  rights,  this  earth  would 
realize  paradise.  He  looked  upon  reli- 
gion, as  it  is  professed,  and  above  all 
practised,  as  hostile  instead  of  friendly 
to  the  cultivation  of  those  virtues  which 
would  make  men  brothers. 

Can  this  be  wondered  at?  At  the  age 
of  seventeen,  fragile  in  health  and  frame, 
of  the  purest  habits  in  morals,  full  of  de- 
voted generosity  and  universal  kindness, 
glowing  with  ardor  to  attain  wisdom,  re-  , 
solved  at   every  personal   sacrifice   to  do   I 


right,  burning  with  a  desire  for  affection 
and  sympathy,  —  he  was  treated  as  a 
reprobate,  cast  forth  as  a  criminal. 

The  cause  was  that  he  was  sincere; 
that  he  believed  the  opinions  which  he 
entertained  to  be  true.  And  he  loved 
truth  with  a  martyr's  love;  he  was  ready 
to  sacrifice  station  and  fortune,  and  his 
dearest  affections,  at  its  shrine.  The 
sacrifice  was  demanded  from,  and  made 
by,  a  youth  of  seventeen.  It  is  a  singu- 
lar fact  in  the  history  of  society  in  the 
civilized  nations  of  modern  times  that  no 
false  step  is  so  irretrievable  as  one  made 
in  early  youth.  Older  men,  it  is  true, 
when  they  oppose  their  fellows  and  trans- 
gress ordinary  rules,  carry  a  certain  pru- 
dence or  hypocrisy  as  a  shield  along  with 
them.  But  youth  is  rash;  nor  can  it  im- 
agine, while  asserting  what  it  believes  to 
be  true,  and  doing  what  it  believes  to  be 
right,  that  it  should  be  denounced  as 
vicious,  and  pursued  as  a  criminal. 

Shelley  possessed  a  quality  of  mind 
which  experience  has  shown  me  to  be  of 
the  rarest  occurrence  among  human  be- 
ings: this  was  his  unworldliness.  The 
usual  motives  that  rule  men,  prospects  of 
present  or  future  advantage,  the  rank  and 
fortune  of  those  around,  the  taunts  and 
censures,  or  the  praise,  of  those  who 
were  hostile  to  him,  had  no  influence 
whatever  over  his  actions,  and  appar- 
ently none  over  his  thoughts.  It  is  diffi- 
cult even  to  express  the  simplicity  and 
directness  of  purpose  that  adorned  him. 
Some  few  might  be  found  in  the  history 
of  mankind,  and  some  one  at  least 
among  his  own  friends,  equally  disinter- 
ested and  scornful,  even  to  severe  per- 
sonal sacrifices,  of  every  baser  motive. 
But  no  one,  I  believe,  ever  joined  this 
noble  but  passive  virtue  to  equal  active 
endeavors  for  the  benefit  of  his  friends 
and  mankind  in  general,  and  to  equal 
power  to  produce  the  advantages  he  de- 
sired. The  world's  brightest  gauds  and 
its  most  solid  advantages  were  of  no  worth 
in  his  eyes,  when  compared  to  the  cause 
of  what  he  considered  truth,  and  the  good 
of  his  fellow-creatures.  Born  in  a  posi- 
tion which,  to  his  inexperienced  mind, 
afforded  the  greatest  facilities  to  practise 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


93 


the  tenets  he  espoused,  he  boldly  declared 
the  use  he  would  make  of  fortune  and 
station,  and  enjoyed  the  belief  that  he 
should  materially  benefit  his  fellow  crea- 
tures by  his  actions;  while,  conscious  of 
surpassing  powers  of  reason  and  imagi- 
nation, it  is  not  strange  that  he  should, 
even  while  so  young,  have  believed  that 
his  written  thoughts  would  tend  to  dis- 
seminate opinions  which  he  believed 
conducive  to  the  happiness  of  the  human 
race. 

If  man  were  a  creature  devoid  of 
passion,  he  might  have  said  and  done 
all  this  with  quietness.  But  he  was  too 
enthusiastic,  and  too  full  of  hatred  of  all 
the  ills  he  witnessed,  not  to  scorn  dan- 
ger. Various  disappointments  tortured, 
but  could  not  tame,  his  soul.  The  more 
enmity  he  met,  the  more  earnestly  he 
became  attached  to  his  peculiar  views, 
and  hostile  to  those  of  the  men  who 
persecuted  him. 

He  was  animated  to  greater  zeal  by 
compassion  for  his  fellow-creatures.  His 
sympathy  was  excited  by  the  misery  with 
which  the  world  is  burning.  He  wit- 
nessed the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  and 
was  aware  of  the  evils  of  ignorance. 
He  desired  to  induce  every  rich  man 
to  despoil  himself  of  superfluity,  and  to 
create  a  brotherhood  of  property  and 
service,  and  was  ready  to  be  the  first  to 
lay  down  the  advantages  of  his  birth. 
He  was  of  too  uncompromising  a  dispo- 
sition to  join  any  party.  He  did  not  in 
his  youth  look  forward  to  gradual  im- 
provement: nay,  in  those  days  of  intoler- 
ance, now  almost  forgotten,  it  seemed 
as  easy  to  look  forward  to  the  sort  of 
millennium  of  freedom  and  brotherhood 
which  he  thought  the  proper  state  of 
mankind  as  to  the  present  reign  of 
moderation  and  improvement.  Ill-health 
made  him  believe  that  his  race  would 
soon  be  run  ;  that  a  year  or  two  was  all 
he  had  of  life.  He  desired  that  these 
years  should  be  useful  and  illustrious. 
He  saw,  in  a  fervent  call  on  his  fellow- 
creatures  to  share  alike  the  blessings  of 
the  creation,  to  love  and  serve  each 
other,  the    noblest    work    that    life    and 


time  permitted  him.     In   this  spirit   he 
composed  "Queen  Mab." 

He  was  a  lover  of  the  wonderful  and 
wild  in  literature,  but  had  not  fostered 
these  tastes  at  their  genuine  sources  — 
I  the  romances  and  chivalry  of  the  middle 
|  ages — but  in  the  perusal  of  such  Ger- 
man works  as  were  current  in  those 
days.  Under  the  influence  of  these  he, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen,  wrote  two  short 
prose  romances  of  slender  merit.  The 
sentiments  and  language  were  exagger- 
ated, the  composition  imitative  and  poor. 
He  also  wrote  a  poem  on  the  subject  o\ 
Ahasuerus  —  being  led  to  it  by  a  German 
fragment  he  picked  up,  dirty  and  torn, 
in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  This  fell  after- 
wards into  other  hands,  and  was  con- 
siderably altered  before  it  was  printed. 
Our  earlier  English  poetry  was  almost 
unknown  to  him.  The  love  and  knowl- 
edge of  Nature  developed  by  Words- 
worth —  the  lofty  melody  and  mysterious 
beauty  of  Coleridge's  poetry  —  and  the 
wild  fantastic  machinery  and  gorgeous 
scenery  adopted  by  Southey  —  composed 
his  favorite  reading  ;  the  rhythm  of 
"Queen  Mab"  was  founded  on  that  of 
"  Thalaba  "  and  the  first  few  lines  bear  a 
striking  resemblance  in  spirit,  though  not 
in  idea,  to  the  opening  of  that  poem.  His 
fertile  imagination,  and  ear  tuned  to  the 
finest  sense  of  harmony,  preserved  him 
from  imitation.  Another  of  his  favorite 
books  was  the  poem  of  "  Gebir  "  by  Wal- 
ter Savage  Landor.  From  his  boyhood  he 
had  a  wonderful  facility  of  versification, 
which  he  carried  into  another  language; 
and  his  Latin  school-verses  were  com- 
posed with  an  ease  and  correctness  that 
procured  for  him  prizes,  and  caused  him 
to  be  resorted  to  by  all  his  friends  for 
help.  He  was,  at  the  period  of  writing 
"Queen  Mab,"  a  great  traveller  within 
the  limits  of  England,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland.  His  time  was  spent  among  the 
loveliest  scenes  of  these  countries.  Moun- 
tain and  lake  and  forest  were  his  home; 
the  phenomena  of  Nature  were  his  favor- 
ite study.  He  loved  to  inquire  into  their 
causes,  and  was  addicted  to  pursuits  of 
natural   philosophy  and  chemistry,  as  far 


94 


NOTES   TO   QUEEN  MAB. 


as  they  could  be  carried  on  as  an  amuse- 
ment. These  tastes  gave  truth  and  vi- 
vacity to  his  descriptions,  and  warmed  his 
soul  with  that  deep  admiration  for  the 
wonders  of  Nature  which  constant  asso- 
ciation with  her  inspired. 

He  never  intended  to  publish  "  Queen 
Mab  "  as  it  stands  ;  but  a  few  years  after, 
when  printing  "Alastor,"  he  extracted  a 
small  portion  which  he  entitled  "The 
U.emon  of  the  World."  In  this  he 
changed  somewhat  the  versification,  and 
made  other  alterations  scarcely  to  be 
called  improvements. 

Some  years  after,  when  in  Italy,  a 
bookseller  published  an  edition  of  "  Queen 
Mab"  as  it  originally  stood.  Shelley 
was  hastily  written  to  by  his  friends,  under 
the  idea  that,  deeply  injurious  as  the 
mere  distribution  of  the  poem  had  proved, 
the  publication  might  awaken  fresh  per- 
secutions. At  the  suggestion  of  these 
friends  he  wrote  a  letter  on  the  subject, 
printed  in  the  Examiner  newspaper  — 
with  which  I  close  this  history  of  his 
earliest  work. 


To  the  Editor  of  the  "  Examiner." 

Sir, 

Having  heard  that  a  poem  entitled 
"  Queen  Mab  "  has  been  surreptitiously 
published  in  London,  and  that  legal  pro- 
ceedings have  been  instituted  against  the 
publisher,  I  request  the  favor  of  your 
insertion  of  the  following  explanation  of 
the  affair,  as  it  relates  to  me. 

A  poem  entitled  "Queen  Mab"  was 
written  by  me  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  I 
dare  say  in  a  sufficiently  intemperate  spirit 
—  but  even  then  was  not  intended  for 
publication,  and  a  few  copies  only  were 
struck  off,  to  be  distributed  among  my 
personal  friends.  I  have  not  seen  this 
production  for  several  years.  I  doubt 
not  but  that  it  is  perfectly  worthless  in 
point  of  literary  composition  ;  and  that, 
in  all  that  concerns  moral  and  political 
speculation,  as  well  as  in  the  subtler  dis- 
criminations of  metaphysical  and  religious 
doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude  and  imma- 
ture.    I  am  a  devoted  enemy  to  religious, 


political  and  domestic  oppression  ;  and 
I  regret  this  publication,  not  so  much 
from  literary  vanity,  as  because  I  fear  it 
is  better  fitted  to  injure  than  to  serve 
the  sacred  cause  of  freedom.  I  have  di- 
rected my  solicitor  to  apply  to  Chancery 
for  an  injunction  to  restrain  the  sale;  but, 
after  the  precedent  of  Mr.  Southey's 
"  Wat  Tyler  "  (a  poem  written,  I  believe, 
at  the  same  age,  and  with  the  same  un- 
reflecting enthusiasm),  with  little  hope 
of  success. 

Whilst  I  exonerate  myself  from  all 
share  in  having  divulged  opinions  hostile 
to  existing  sanctions,  under  the  form, 
whatever  it  may  be,  which  they  assume  in 
this  poem,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for  me 
to  protest  against  the  system  of  inculcat- 
ing the  truth  of  Christianity  or  the  excel- 
lence of  Monarchy,  however  true  or  how- 
ever excellent  they  may  be,  by  such 
equivocal  arguments  as  confiscation  and 
imprisonment,  and  invective  and  slander, 
and  the  insolent  violation  of  the  most 
sacred  ties  of  Nature  and  society. 

Sir, 
I  am  your  obliged  and  obedient  servant, 
Percy  B.  Shelley. 

Pisa,  June  22,  182 1. 


THE    DAEMON   OF    THE   WORLD. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Part  I. 


Nee  tantum  prodere  vati, 
Quantum  scire  licet.     Venit  aetas  omnis  in  imam 
Congeriem,     miserumque    premunt    tot    sa=-cula 
pectus. 

Lucan,  Phars.  L.  v.  1.  176-178. 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 
Death  and    his  brother  Sleep  ! 

One  pale    as   yonder    wan    and    horned 
moon, 
With  lips  of  lurid  blue, 

The  other  glowing  like  the  vital  morn 
When  throned  on  ocean's  wave 
It  breathes  over  the  world; 

1   A  fragment  of  Queen  Mab  revised.  —  Ed. 


THE  DAEMON  0J>   THE    WORLD. 


95 


Yet  both  so  passing  strange  and  wonder- 
ful! 

Hath  then  the  iron-sceptred  Skeleton, 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres, 
To  the  hell  dogs  that  couch  beneath  his 

throne 
Cast  that  fair  prey?     Must  that  divinest 

form, 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without   a    beating    heart,  whose  azure 

veins 
Steal  like  dark  streams  along  a  field  of 

snow, 
Whose  outline  is  as  fair  as  marble  clothed 
In  light  of  some  sublimest  mind,  decay? 

Nor  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  aught  of  this  pure  spectacle 
But  loathsomeness  and  ruin?  — 
Spare  aught  but  a  dark  theme, 
On    which     the    lightest     heart     might 

moralize? 
Or  is  it  but  that  downy-winged  slumbers 
Have  charmed  their   nurse  coy  Silence, 
near  her  lids 
To  watch  their  own  repose? 
Will  they,  when  morning's  beam 
Flows  through  those  wells  of  light, 
Seek  far  from  noise  and  day  some  west- 
ern cave, 
Where  woods  and  streams  with  soft  and 
pausing  winds 
A  lulling  murmur  weave?  — 

Ianthe  doth  not  sleep 
The  dreamless  sleep  of  death : 
Nor  in  her  moonlight  chamber  silently 
Doth    Henry    hear    her    regular    pulses 
throb, 
Or  mark  her  delicate  cheek 
With  interchange  of  hues  mock  the  broad 
moon, 
Outwatching  weary  night, 
Without  assured  reward. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed; 
On  their  translucent  lids,  whose  texture 

fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  that  burn 
below 
With  unapparent  fire, 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed : 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride, 


Twining  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 


Hark!  whence  that  rushing  sound? 
'T  is    like    a  wondrous    strain  that 

sweeps 
Around  a  lonely  ruin 
When  west  winds  sigh  and  evening  waves 
respond 
In  whispers  from  the  shore : 
'T  is  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Which  from  the  unseen  lyres  of  dells  and 
groves 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep. 
Floating  on  waves  of  music  and  of  light 
The  chariot  of  the  Daemon  of  the  World 

Descends  in  silent  power: 
Its  shape  reposed  within:   slight  as  some 

cloud 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  day 

When  evening  yields  to  night; 
Bright   as  that   fibrous  woof  when  stars 
endue 
Its  transitory  robe. 
Four  shapeless  shadows  bright  and  beau- 
tiful 
Draw  that  strange  car  of  glory,  reins  of 

light 
Check  their   unearthly  speed;    they  stop 
and  fold 
Their  wings  of  braided  air : 
The  Daemon  leaning  from  the  ethereal  car 

Gazed  on  the  slumbering  maid. 
Human  eye  hath  ne'er  beheld 
A  shape  so  wild,  so  bright,  so  beautiful, 
As  that  which  o'er  the  maiden's  charmed 
sleep 
Waving  a  starry  wand, 
Hung  like  a  mist  of  light. 
Such    sounds    as    breathed    around    like 
odorous  winds 
Of  wakening  spring  arose, 
Filling  the  chamber  and  the  moonlight 
sky. 


"  Maiden,  the  world's  supremest  spirit 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings 
Folds  all  thy  memory  doth  inherit 
From  ruin  of  divinest  things, 
Feelings  that  lure  thee  to  betray, 
And  light  of  thoughts  that  pass 
away. 


96 


THE   DMMON  OF   THE    WORLD. 


"  For  thou  hast  earned  a  mighty  boon, 
The  truths  which  wisest  poets  see 
Dimly,  thy  mind  may  make  its  own, 
Rewarding  its  own  majesty, 

Entranced  in  some  diviner  mood 
Of  self-oblivious  solitude. 

"Custom,  and  Faith,  and   Power   thou 
spurnest; 
From  hate  and  awe  thy  heart  is  free; 
Ardent  and  pure  as  day  thou  burnest, 
For  dark  and  cold  mortality 
A  living  light,  to  cheer  it  long, 
The    watch-fires  of    the    world 
among. 

"  Therefore  from  nature's  inner  shrine, 
Where  gods  and  fiends  in  worship 
bend, 
Majestic  spirit,  be  it  thine 

The  flame  to  seize,  the  veil  to  rend, 
Where  the  vast  snake  Eternity 
In  charmed  sleep  doth  ever  lie. 

"  All  that  inspires  thy  voice  of  love, 
Or  speaks  in  thy  unclosing  eyes, 
Or  through  thy  frame  doth  burn  or  move, 
Or  think  or  feel,  awake,  arise ! 
Spirit,  leave  for  mine  and  me 
Earth's  unsubstantial  mimicry!  " 

It  ceased,  and  from  the  mute  and  move- 
less frame 
A  radiant  spirit  arose, 
All  Beautiful  in  naked  purity. 
Robed  in  its  human  hues  it  did  ascend, 
Disparting  as  it  went  the  silver  clouds 
It  moved  towards  the  car,  and  took  its 
seat 
Beside  the  Daemon  shape. 

Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  aery  song, 

The  mighty  ministers 
Unfurled  their  prismy  wings. 

The  magic  car  moved  on; 
The  night  was  fair,  innumerable  stars 

Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault; 

The  eastern  wave  grew  pale 

With  the  first  smile  of  morn. 

The  magic  car  moved  on, 
From  the  swift  sweep  of  wings 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew; 


And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied    above    the    mountain's    loftiest 
peak 

Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  far  above  a  rock  the  utmost  verge 

Of  the  wide  earth  it  flew, 
The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 

Frowned  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  stormy  path, 
Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 
Tremendous  ocean  lay. 

Its  broad  and  silent  mirror  gave  to  view 
The  pale  and  waning  stars, 
The  chariot's  fiery  track, 
And  the  gray  light  of  morn 
Tingeing  those  fleecy  clouds 

That    cradled  in  their    folds    the  infant 
dawn. 
The  chariot  seemed  to  fly 

Through  the  abyss  of  an  immense  con- 
cave, 

Radiant     with     million     constellations, 
tinged 
With  shades  of  infinite  color, 
And  semicircled  with  a  belt 
Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

As  they  approached  their  goal 
The  winged  shadows    seemed  to  gather 

speed. 
The  sea   no    longer    was   distinguished; 

earth 
Appeared    a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere, 
suspended 
In  the  black  concave  of  heaven 
With  the  sun's  cloudless  orb, 
Whose  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course, 
And  fell  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 
Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 
Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appeared 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles   in  the 
heavens, 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  widely  rolled, 
And  countless  spheres  diffused, 
An  ever  varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder  !     Some  were 
horned, 


THE   DAEMON   OF   THE    WORLD. 


97 


And,  like  the  moon's  argentine  crescent 

hung 
In  the  dark  dome  of  heaven;   some  did 

shed 
A  clear  mild  beam  like  Hesperus,  while 

the  sea 
Vet  glows  with  fading  sunlight;    others 

dashed 
Athwart  the  night  with  trains  of  bicker- 
ing fire, 
Like  sphered  worlds  to  death  and  ruin 

driven; 
Some  shone  like  stars,  and  as  the  chariot 

passed 
Bedimmed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  here 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  involved  immensity 

Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 

Vet  not  the  lightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 

Is  less  instinct  with  thee,  — 

Vet  not  the  meanest  worm, 
That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the 
dead 

Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou 
Imperishable  as  this  glorious  scene, 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  shore  of  the  immeasurable  sea, 
And  thou  hast  lingered  there 
Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seemed    resting    on    the    fiery    line    of 

ocean 
Thou    must    have    marked    the    braided 
webs  of  gold 
That  without  motion  hang 
Over  the  sinking  sphere: 
Thou    must    have    marked    the    billowy 

mountain  clouds, 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 
Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 
Above  the  burning  deep: 
And  yet  there  is  a  moment 
When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peers   like   a    star   o'er   ocean's   western 

edge, 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  purple 
gleam 


!   Like   fairy  lands   girt  by  some   heavenly 

sea: 
,  Then  has  thy  rapt  imagination  soared 
'   Where  in  the  midst  of  all  existing  things 
;  The    temple    of    the    mightiest    Daemon 

stands. 
| 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
i  That   gleam   amid    yon   flood   of    purple 
light, 
Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
That  canopy  the  sun's  resplendent  couch, 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean  waves 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  the  eternal  temple  could  afford. 
The  elements  of  all  that  human  thought 
Can  frame  of  lovely  or  sublime,  did  join 
To  rear  the  fabric  of  the  fane,  nor  aught 
Of  earth  may  image  forth  its  majesty. 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault  that  faery  hall, 
As  heaven  low  resting  on   the   wave   it 
spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome; 
And  on  the  verge  of  that  obscure  abyss 
Where  crystal  battlements  o'erhang  the 

gulf 
Of  the  dark  world,  ten  thousand  spheres 

diffuse 
Their     lustre     through    its     adamantine 
gates. 

The  magic  car  no  longer  moved; 
The  Daemon  and  the  Spirit 
Entered  the  eternal  gates. 
Those  clouds  of  aery  gold 
That  slept  in  glittering  billows 
Beneath  the  azure  canopy, 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not; 

While  slight  and  odorous  mists 
Floated  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through     the     vast     columns     and     the 
pearly  shrines. 

The  Daemon  and  the  Spirit 
Approached  the  overhanging  battlement. 
Below    lay  stretched  the    boundless  uni- 
verse ! 

There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  limits  swift  imagination's  flight, 
Unending  orbs  mingled  in  mazy  motion, 

Immutably  fulfilling 


THE   DAEMON  OF   THE    WORLD. 


Eternal  Nature's  law. 
Above,  below,  around, 
The  circling  systems  formed 
A  wilderness  of  harmony, 
Each  with  undeviating  aim 
In   eloquent  silence   through  the  depths 
of  space 
Pursued  its  wondrous  way.  — 


Awhile  the  Spirit  paused  in  ecstasy. 

Yet  soon  she  saw,  as  the  vast  spheres 
swept  by, 

Strange  things  within  their  belted  orbs 
appear. 

Like  animated  frenzies,  dimly  moved 

Shadows,  and  skeletons,  and  fiendly 
shapes, 

Thronging  round  human  graves,  and  o'er 
the  dead 

Sculpturing  records  for  each  memory 

In  verse,  such  as  malignant  gods  pro- 
nounce, 

Blasting  the  hopes  of  men,  when  heaven 
and  hell 

Confounded  burst  in  ruin  o'er  the  world: 

And  they  did  build  vast  trophies,  in- 
struments 

Of  murder,  human  bones,  barbaric  gold, 

Skins  torn  from  living  men,  and  towers 
of  skulls 

With  sightless  holes  gazing  on  blinder 
heaven, 

Mitres,  and  crowns,  and  brazen  chariots 
stained 

With  blood,  and  scrolls  of  mystic  wick- 
edness, 

The  sanguine  codes  of  venerable  crime. 

The  likeness  of  a  throned  king  came  by, 

When  these  had  past,  bearing  upon  his 
brow 

A  threefold  crown;  his  countenance  was 
calm, 

His  eye  severe  and  cold;  but  his  right 
hand 

Was  charged  with  bloody  coin,  and  he 
did  gnaw 

By  fits,  with  secret  smiles,  a  human 
heart 

Concealed  beneath  his  robe;  and  motley 
shapes, 

A  multitudinous  throng,  around  him 
knelt, 


With    bosoms   bare,   and  bowed    heads, 

and  false  looks 
Of  true  submission,  as  the  sphere  rolled 

.b>-> 
Brooking    no    eye  to    witness   their   foul 

shame, 

Which  human  hearts  must  feel,  while 
human  tongues 

Tremble  to  speak,  they  did  rage  horribly, 

Breathing  in  self  contempt  fierce  blas- 
phemies 

Against  the  Daemon  of  the   World,  and 

.    hiSh   . 
Hurling    their   armed    hands   where   the 

pure  Spirit, 

Serene  and  inaccessibly  secure, 

Stood  on  an  isolated  pinnacle, 

The  flood  of  ages  combating  below, 

The  depth  of   the  unbounded  universe 

Above,  and  all  around 

Necessity's  unchanging  harmony. 


Part  II. 

O  HAPPY  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven  ! 
To    which    those    restless     powers    that 

ceaselessly 
Throng    through    the    human    universe, 

aspire; 
Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope  ! 
Thou  glorious   prize   of    blindly-working 

will  ! 
Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space 

and  time, 
Verge    to    one  point  and  blend  forever 

there  ! 
Of     purest    spirits    thou    pure    dwelling- 
place, 
Where  care  and  sorrow,   impotence   and 

crime, 
Languor,  disease,  and  ignorance  dare  not 

come : 
O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate 

dreams, 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness 
Haunting  the   human   heart    have   there 

entwined 
Those    rooted     hopes,    that     the     proud 

Power  of   Evil 
Shall  not  forever  on  this  fairest  world 


THE   BALMON  OF   THE    WORLD. 


99 


Shake  pestilence  and  war,  or  that  his 
slaves 

With  blasphemy  for  prayer,  and  human 
blood 

For  sacrifice,  before  his  shrine  forever 

In  adoration  bend,  or  Erebus 

With  all  its  banded  fiends  shall  not  uprise 

To  overwhelm  in  envy  and  revenge 

The  dauntless  and  the  good,  who  dare  to 
hurl 

Defiance  at  his  throne,  girt  tho'  it  be 

With  Death's  omnipotence.  Thou  hast 
beheld 

His  empire,  o'er  the  present  and  the 
past; 

It  was  a  desolate  sight  —  now  gaze  on 
mine, 

Futurity.     Thou  hoary  giant  Time, 

Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured 
babes,  — 

And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity, 

Where  millions  lie  lulled  to  their  por- 
tioned sleep 

By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  pass- 
ing things, 

Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud. —  "  Spirit, 
behold 

Thy  glorious  destiny  !  ' ' 

The  Spirit  saw 
The  vast  frame  of  the  renovated  world 
Smile  in  the  lap  of  Chaos,  and  the  sense 
Of  hope  thro'  her  fine  texture  did  suffuse 
Such  varying  glow,  as   summer   evening 

casts 
On    undulating    clouds    and    deepening 

lakes. 
Like   the  vague   sighings  of    a  wind    at 

even, 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumber- 
ing sea 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 
And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by 

fits, 
Was  the  sweet   stream  of    thought   that 

with  wild  motion 
Flowed  o'er  the   Spirit's   human   sympa- 
thies. 
The  mighty  tide  of  thought  had  paused 

awhile, 
Which  from  the  Daemon  now  like  Ocean's 

stream 
Again  began  to  pour.  — 


"  To  me  is  given 
j  The  wonders    of    the    human    world    to 

keep  — 
i  Space,  matter,  time  and  mind  —  let  the 
!  sight 

Renew    and    strengthen    all    thy    failing 

hope. 
All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
I   Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life  : 
|  The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her 

care, 

Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  perfect- 

ness: 

j  The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 

i   Her  virtues,  and  diffuse  them  all  abroad: 

Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere, 

Glows  in  the  fruits,  and  mantles  on  the 

stream : 
No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of 

heaven, 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  undecaying  trees; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair, 
And  Autumn  proudly  bears  her  matron 

grace, 
Kindling  a  flush  on  the    fair    cheek    of 

Spring, 
Whose  virgin  bloom  beneath   the   ruddy 

fruit 
Reflects  its  tint  and  blushes  into  love. 

The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss; 
|   Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were 

hurled 
j   By    everlasting    snow-storms    round    the 
|  poles, 

1   Where    matter  dared    not    vegetate    nor 
live, 
But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 
Bound    its   broad    zone   of    stillness,   are 

unloosed; 
And  fragrant   zephyrs   there    from   spicy 

isles 
Ruffle  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 
Its  broad,   bright   surges   to   the   sloping 

sand, 
Whose   roar    is  wakened    into    cchoings 

sweet 
To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing 

groves 
And  melodize  with  man's    blest    nature 
there. 


THE   DALMON  OF   THE    WORLD. 


"The  vast    tract  of  the   parched  and 

sandy  waste 
Now  teems  with  countless  rills  and  shady 

woods, 
Corn-fields  and  pastures  and  white  cot- 
tages; 
And  where  the  startled  wilderness    did 

hear 
A  savage  conqueror  stained  in  kindred 

blood, 
Hymning  his  victory,  or  the  milder  snake 
Crushing  the  bones  of  some  frail  antelope 
Within  his  brazen  folds  —  the  dewy  lawn, 
Offering  sweet  incense    to    the    sunrise, 

smiles 
To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door, 
Share  with  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 
That  comes  to  lick  his  feet,  his  morning's 

meal. 


"Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many 

a  weary  sail 
Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain, 
Morning  on  night,  and  night  on  morning 

rise, 
Whilst  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer 

spread 
Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun-bright 

sea, 
Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest- 
waves 
So    long    have   mingled   with   the   gusty 

wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes, 
But  vocal    to    the    sea-bird's    harrowing 

shriek, 
The  bellowing  monster,  and  the  rushing 

storm, 
Now  to  the    sweet    and    many-mingling 

sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond: 
Those   lonely  realms  bright  garden-isles 

begem, 
With  lightsome  clouds  and  shining  seas 

between, 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss, 
Whilst     green     woods     overcanopy    the 

wave, 
Which  like  a  toil-worn  laborer  leaps  to 

shore, 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  flowerets  there. 


"  Man  chief  perceives  the  change;  his 

being  notes 
The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 
Each  movement   of    its   progress   on  his 

mind. 
Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar 

night 
Lowered  o'er  the   snow-clad  rocks  and 

frozen  soil, 
Where     scarce    the    hardest    herb    that 

braves  the  frost 
Basked    in    the    moonlight's    ineffectual 

glow, 
Shrank   with    the   plants,    and  darkened 

with  the  night; 
Nor  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms 

of  day 
With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and 

flame, 
Where  blue  mists  through  the  unmoving 

atmosphere 
Scattered   the   seeds   of    pestilence,    and 

fed 
Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land 
Teemed  with  all  earthquake,  tempest  and 

disease, 
Was  man  a  nobler  being;    slavery 
Had  crushed  him  to  his  country's  blood- 
stained dust. 

"  Even  where  the  milder  zone  afforded 
man 
A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there, 
Blighting  his  being  with  unnumbered  ills, 
Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire;   nor  truth 

availed 
Till  late  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 
That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  vic- 
tory waved 
Her   snowy  standard    o'er    this    favored 

clime : 
There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of 

slaves, 
The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery, 
The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 
The  bloodhound  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 

"  Here  now  the  human  being  stands 
adorning 

This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body 
and  mind; 

Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  im- 
pulses, 


THE   DMMON  OF   THE    WQRL1>\ 


ioi 


Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 
All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 
Him,  still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pur- 
suing, 
Which    from    the    exhaustless     lore    of 

human  weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts 

that  rise 
In  time-destroying  inflniteness,  gift 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  that  mocks 
The  unprevailing  hoariness  of  age,. 
And  man,    once   fleeting  o'er  the   tran- 
sient scene 
Swift  as  an  unremembered  vision,  stands 
Immortal  upon  earth:    no  longer  now 
He  slays  the  beast  that  sports  around  his 

dwelling 
And  horribly  devours  its  mangled  flesh, 
Or  drinks  its  vital    blood,  which  like  a 

stream 
Of   poison   thro'   his    fevered   veins    did 

flow 
Feeding  a  plague  that  secretly  consumed 
His   feeble    frame,   and   kindling   in   his 

mind 
Hatred,     despair,     and    fear    and    vain 

belief, 
The    germs    of    misery,    death,    disease, 

and  crime. 
No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 
That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing 

away, 
Flee  from  the  form  of  man;   but  gather 

round, 
And  prune   their  sunny  feathers  on  the 

hands 
Which  little  children  stretch  in  friendly  j 

sport 
Towards  these  dreadless  partners  of  their 

play. 
All   things  are  void  of  terror:   man  has 

lost 
His  desolating  privilege,  and  stands 
An  equal  amidst  equals:   happiness 
And  science  dawn  though  late  upon  the 

earth; 
Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health  renovates 

the  frame; 
Disease    and    pleasure    cease    to    mingle 

here, 
Reason    and    passion    cease    to    combat 

there; 


Whilst  mind  unfettered  o'er  the    earth 

extends 
Its  all-subduing  energies,  and  wields 
The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there. 

"  Mild  is  the  slow  necessity  of  death: 
The     tranquil    spirit    fails    beneath     its 

grasp, 
Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear, 
Resigned  in  peace  to  the  necessity, 
Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land, 
And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 
The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 
Waste  in  the  human  frame,  and  Nature 

gifts 
With   choicest   boons   her   human   wor- 
shippers. 
How  vigorous  now  the  athletic  form  of 

age! 
How    clear    its    open    and    unwrinkled 

brow  ! 
Where   neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride, 

or  care, 
Had  stamped  the  seal  of  gray  deformity 
On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time  ! 
How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth  ! 
How  sweet  the  smiles  of  taintless  in- 
fancy ! 

"Within  the  massy  prison's  moulder- 
ing courts, 

Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children 
play, 

Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent 
brows 

With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall- 
flower, 

That  mock  the  dungeon's  unavailing 
gloom; 

The  ponderous  chains,  and  gratings  of 
strong  iron, 

There  rust  amid  the  accumulated  ruins 

Now  mingling  slowly  with  their  native 
earth; 

There  the  broad  beam  of  day,  which 
feebly  once 

Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 

With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  now  freely 
shines 

On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness: 

No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse 
despair 


"HE  DAEMON  OF   THE    WORLD. 


Peals    through    the    echoing   vaults,   but 

soothing  notes 
Of    ivy-fingered     winds    and    gladsome 

birds 
And  merriment  are  resonant  around. 

"The    fanes    of    Fear   and   Falsehood 

hear  no  more 
The  voice  that  once  waked  multitudes  to 

war 
Thundering    thro'    all    their    aisles:    but 

now  respond 
To   the   death    dirge  of   the   melancholy 

wind : 
It  were  a  sight  of  awfulness  to  see 
The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast, 
So  sumptuous,  yet  withal  so  perishing  ! 
Even   as   the   corpse   that  rests   beneath 

their  wall ! 
A  thousand  mourners  deck  the  pomp  of 

death 
To-day,     the    breathing     marble    glows 

above 
To  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 
Are  busy  of  its  life;  tomorrow,  worms 
In  silence  and  in  darkness  seize  their  prey. 
These  ruins  soon  leave  not  a  wreck  be- 
hind : 
Their  elements,   wide-scattered   o'er  the 

globe, 
To  happier  shapes  are  moulded,  and  be- 
come 
Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses: 
Thus  human  things    are    perfected,  and 

earth, 
Even  as  a    child    beneath    its    mother's 

love, 
Is  strengthened    in    all    excellence,   and 

grows 
Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

"Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er 
the  scene 

Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the 
past 

Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.  My  task 
is  done : 

Thy  lore  is  learned.  Earth's  wonders 
are  thine  own, 

With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they 
bring. 

My  spells  are  past:  the  present  now  re- 
curs. 


Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 
Yet    unsubdued    by    man's    reclaiming 
hand. 

"Yet,  human  Spirit,  bravely  hold  thy 

course, 
Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 
The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change  : 
For  birth  and  life   and  death,    and  that 

strange  state 
Before  the  naked  powers  that   thro'  the 

world 
Wander  like  winds,  have  found  a  human 

home, 
All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  urge 
The  restless  wheels    of   being    on    their 

way, 
Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  in- 
finite life, 
Bicker  and  burn  to   gain   their   destined 

_  goal : 
For  birth  but  wakes  the  universal  mind 
Whose    mighty    streams   might    else    in 

silence  flow 
Thro'  the  vast  world,  to  individual  sense 
Of  outward  shows,  whose  unexperienced 

shape 
New  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may 

lend; 
Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 
Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe; 
Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom, 
That  leads  to   azure   isles   and  beaming 

skies 
And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Therefore,  O  Spirit!   fearlessly  bear  on: 
Though  storms  may  break   the   primrose 

on  its  stalk, 
Though  frosts  may  blight  the  freshness 

of  its  bloom, 
Yet  spring's  awakening  breath  will  woo 

the  earth, 
To  feed  with  kindliest   dews  its   favorite 

flower, 
That  blooms  in   mossy  banks   and   dark- 
some glens, 
Lighting  the  green  wood  with  its  sunny 

smile. 

"  Fear  not  then,  Spirit,  death's  disrob- 
ing hand, 
''  >  v.\  li   >inc  when  the  tyrant  is  awake, 


THE   DAEMON   OF   THE    WORLD. 


103 


So  welcome  when  the  bigot's  hell-torch 

flares; 
'T  is  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour, 
The  transient  gulf-dream   of  a  startling 

sleep. 
For  what  thou  art  shall  perish  utterly, 
But  what  is  thine  may  never  cease  to  be; 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue  :    earth  has  seen 
Love's  brightest    roses    on    the    scaffold 

bloom, 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels 

there, 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee,  which 

this  scene 
Of  linked  and  gradual  being    has    con- 
firmed? 
Hopes   that  not  vainly  thou,   and  living 

fires 
Of  mind,  as  radiant  and  as  pure  as  thou 
Have  shone   upon  the  paths  of  men  — 

return, 
Surpassing  Spirit,   to   that  world,  where 

thou 
Art  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The   germs   of  misery   from   the   human 

heart. 
Thine  is    the    hand    whose    piety  would 

soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime, 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains, 
Watching   its   wanderings   as   a  friend's 

disease : 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would 

defy 
Its  fiercest  rage,  and  brave   its   sternest 

will, 
When  fenced  by  power  and   master  of 

the  world. 
Thou  art  sincere   and  good;    of  resolute 

mind, 
Free  from  heart-withering  custom's  cold 

control, 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 
Earth's   pride   and  meanness  could   not 

vanquish  thee, 
And    therefore    art    thou  worthy  of    the 

boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received:   virtue 

shall  keep 


Thy  footsteps  in  the  nath  that  thou  haat 

trod. 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall 

bless 
Thy   spotless   life    of  sweet    ar.d   sncied 

love. 
Go,  happy  one,  and  give  that  bosom   joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirir  waits  to  catch 
Light,   life   and    rapture    from    thy 

smile." 


The  Daemon  called  its  winged   minis- 
ters. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts 

the  car, 
That  rolled  beside  the  crystal  battlement, 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 

The  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  Heaven's  untrod- 
den way. 
Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew: 
The  mighty  globes  that  rolled 
Around  the  gate  of  the  Eternal  Fane 
Lessened  by  slow  degrees,  and  soon  ap- 
peared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 
That  ministering  on  the  solar  power 
With  borrowed  light  pursued  their  nar- 
rower way. 
Earth  floated  then  below  : 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment; 
The  Spirit  then  descended : 
And  from  the  earth  departing 
The  shadows  with  swift  wings 
Speeded  like  thought  upon  the  light  of 
Heaven. 


The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then, 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  Ianthe's  frame: 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  re- 
mained : 
She  looked  around  in  wonder  and  beheld 
Henry,  who   kneeled   in   silence  by  her 

couch, 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speech- 
less love, 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 


io4 


ALAS  TOR:    OR 


ALASTOR; 

OR 

THE   SPIRIT   OF   SOLITUDE. 

PREFACE. 

The  poem  entitled  Alastor  may  be 
considered  as  allegorical  of  one  of  the 
most  interesting  situations  of  the  human 
mind.  It  represents  a  youth  of  uncor- 
rupted  feelings  and  adventurous  genius 
led  forth  by  an  imagination  inflamed  and 
purified  through  familiarity  with  ail  that 
is  excellent  and  majestic,  to  the  contem- 
plation of  the  universe.  He  drinks  deep 
of  the  fountains  of  knowledge,  and  is 
still  insatiate.  The  magnificence  and 
beauty  of  the  external  world  sinks  pro- 
foundly into  the  frame  of  his  conceptions, 
and  affords  to  their  modifications  a  variety 
not  to  be  exhausted.  So  long  as  it  is 
possible  for  his  desires  to  point  towards 
objects  thus  infinite  and  unmeasured,  he 
is  joyous,  and  tranquil,  and  self-possessed. 
But  the  period  arrives  when  these  objects 
cease  to  suffice.  His  mind  is  at  length 
suddenly  awakened  and  thirsts  for  inter- 
course with  an  intelligence  similar  to  it- 
self. He  images  to  himself  the  Being 
whom  he  loves.  Conversant  with  spec- 
ulations of  the  sublimest  and  most  perfect 
natures,  the  vision  in  which  he  embodies 
his  own  imaginations  unites  all  of  won- 
derful, or  wise,  or  beautiful,  which  the 
poet,  the  philosopher,  or  the  lover  could 
depicture.  The  intellectual  faculties,  the 
imagination,  the  functions  of  sense,  have 
their  respective  requisitions  on  the  sym- 
pathy of  corresponding  powers  in  other 
human  beings.  The  Poet  is  represented 
as  uniting  these  requisitions,  and  attach- 
ing them  to  a  single  image.  He  seeks 
in  vain  for  a  prototype  of  his  conception. 
Blasted  by  his  disappointment,  he  de- 
scends to  an  untimely  grave. 

The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruc- 
tion to  actual  men.  The  Poet's  self- 
centred  seclusion  was  avenged  by  the 
furies  of  an  irresistible  passion  pursuing 
him    to    speedy  ruin.       But    that   Power 


which  strikes  the  luminaries  of  the  world 
with  sudden  darkness  and  extinction,  by 
awakening  them  to  too  exquisite  a  per- 
ception of  its  influences,  dooms  to  a  slow 
and  poisonous  decay  those  meaner  spirits 
that  dare  to  abjure  its  dominion.     Their 
destiny  is  more  abject  and  inglorious  as 
their  delinquency  is  more   contemptible 
and  pernicious.     They  who,  deluded  by 
no     generous     error,     instigated     by    no 
sacred     thirst     of    doubtful    knowledge, 
duped  by  no  illustrious  superstition,  lov- 
ing nothing  on  this  earth,  and  cherishing 
no  hopes  beyond,  yet  keep  aloof  from 
sympathies    with    their    kind,    rejoicing 
neither  in  human  joy  nor  mourning  with 
human  grief;    these,  and  such  as  they, 
have  their  apportioned  curse.     They  lan- 
guish, because  none  feel  with  them  their 
common     nature.       They    are     morally 
dead.       They    are    neither    friends,    nor 
lovers,    nor  fathers,   nor  citizens  of    the 
world,  nor  benefactors  of  their  country. 
Among  those  who  attempt  to  exist  with- 
out    human    sympathy,    the    pure     and 
tender-hearted    perish    through    the   in- 
tensity and  passion  of  their  search  after 
its   communities,    when   the    vacancy   of 
their    spirit    suddenly   makes    itself  felt. 
All  else,    selfish,   blind,   and  torpid,  are 
those  unforeseeing  multitudes  who  con- 
stitute, together  with  their  own,  the  last- 
ing misery  and  loneliness  of  the  world. 
Those  who  love  not  their  fellow-beings 
live    unfruitful    lives,    and    prepare     for 
their  old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

"  The  good  die  first, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket !  " 


December 


=  815. 


Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  qu;cre- 
bam  quid  amarem,  amans  amare.  —  Confess.  St. 
August. 

Earth,    ocean,     air,     beloved     brother- 
hood ! 
If  our  great  Mother  has  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your    love,    and   recompense    the     boon 
with  mine; 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 


105 


If  dewy  morn,   and   odorous   noon,  and 

even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And    solemn    midnight's   tingling  silent- 

ness ; 
If    autumn's    hollow    sighs  in    the    sere 

wood, 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and 

crowns 
Of    starry   ice   the   gray  grass    and  bare 

boughs; 
If    spring's  voluptuous    pantings    when 

she  breathes 
tier   first  sweet  kisses,   have  been  dear 

to  me; 
If  no  bright  bird;  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I    consciously    have     injured,     but     still 

loved 
And  cherished  these  my  kindred;    then 

forgive 
This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  with- 
draw 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  favor  now  ! 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world  ! 

Favor  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have 
loved 

Thee  ever,  and  thee  only;  I  have 
watched 

Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy 
steps, 

And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 

Of  thy  deep  mysteries.  I  have  made 
my  bed 

In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black 
death 

Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from 
thee, 

Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  ques- 
tionings 

Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone 
ghost, 

Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 

Of  what  we  are.  In  lone  and  silent 
hours, 

When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its 
own  stillness, 

Tike  an  inspired  and  desperate  alche- 
mist 

Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope, 

Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking 
looks 


With     my     most    innocent     love,    until 

strange  tears 
Uniting    with     those    breathless     kisses, 

made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 
To  render  up  thy  charge:  and,  tho'  ne'er 

yet 
Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  inmost  sanctuary, 
Enough  from  incommunicable  dream, 
And  twilight  phantasms,  and  deep  noon- 
day thought, 
Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 
And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 
Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 
Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 
I  wait  thy  breath,  Great  Parent,  that  my 

strain 
May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 
And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea 
And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven 

hymns 
Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of 

man. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb 

No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence 
reared, 

But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal 
winds 

Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyra- 
mid 

Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilder- 
ness: — 

A  lovely  youth,  —  no  mourning  maiden 
decked 

With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress 
wreath, 

The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep :  — 

Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous,  —  no 
lorn  bard 

Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious 
sigh : 

He  lived,  he  died,  he  sung,  in  solitude. 

Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passion- 
ate notes, 

And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have 
pined 

And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 

The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to 
burn, 

And  Silence,  too  enamored  of  that  voice, 

Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 


io6 


ALASTOR;    OR 


By    solemn    vision,   and   bright    silver 
dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  am- 
bient air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not   his    thirsting    lips,   and  all    of 

great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And    knew.       When    early    youth    had 

passed,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To  seek  strange  truths   in  undiscovered 

lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilder- 
ness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps;    and  he  has 

bought 
With    his    sweet    voice    and    eyes,   from 

savage  men, 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret 

steps 
He  like  her  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  overcanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke,  or  where  bitumen 

lakes 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret 

caves 
Rugged  and   dark,   winding    among   the 

springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear 

shrines 
Of  pearl  and  thrones  radiant  with  chryso- 
lite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of 

heaven 
And  the  green  earth  lost  in  his  heart  its 

claims 
To  love  and  wonder;    he  would   linger 

long 
In   lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his 

home, 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  par- 
take 


From  his   innocuous  hand  his  bloodless 

food, 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  when- 
e'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the 

waste  % 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of 

strange, 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk, 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx, 
Dark  ^Ethiopia  in  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.      Among   the    ruined    temples 

there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  daemons 

watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead 

men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute 

walls  around, 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth;  through  the  long 

burning  day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes;    nor, 

when  the  moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating 

shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And    gazed,  till  meaning   on  his  vacant 

mind 
Flashed   like   strong  inspiration,  and  he 

saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

Meanwhile   an   Arab  maiden    brought 

his  food, 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And   spread    her  matting  for  his   couch, 

and  stole 
From    duties    and     repose    to     tend     his 

steps:  — 
Enamored,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To  speak    her   love :  —  and  watched   his 

nightly  sleep, 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 


Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 

Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular 
breath 

Of  innocent  dreams  arose:  then,  when 
red  morn 

Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold 
home 

Wildered  and  wan  and  panting,  she  re- 
turned. 

The  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arabie 
And    Persia,    and    the    wild    Carmanian 

waste, 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  which  pour 

down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way; 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cashmire,  far  within 
Its    loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants 

entwine 
Beneath    the    hollow    rocks    a    natural 

bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never 

yet 
Had  flushed  his  cheek.     He  dreamed  a 

veiled  maid 
Sate    near    him,    talking    in  low  solemn 

tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own 

soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought;   its  music 

long, 
Like    woven    sounds    of    streams     and 

breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-colored  woof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge    and    truth  and  virtue  were 

her  theme, 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts    the    most    dear    to    him,    and 

poesy, 
Plerself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her 

frame 
A  permeating  fire :   wild  numbers  then 
She   raised,  with  voice   stifled  in  tremu- 
lous sobs 
Subdued    by    its    own    pathos :    her  fair 

hands 
Were  bare   alone,   sweeping  from  some 

strange  harp 


Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branch- 
ing veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultously  accorded  with  those  fits 
Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose, 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 
Its  bursting    burden:    at  the    sound    he 

turned, 
And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own 

life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous 

veil 
Of  woven  wind,  her  outspread  arms  now 

bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of 

night, 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 
Outstretched    and    pale,    and    quivering 

eagerly. 
His  strong  heart  sunk  and  sickened  with 

excess 
Of  love.     He  reared  his  shuddering  limbs 

and  quelled 
His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms 

to  meet 
Her  panting  bosom:   .  .   .   she  drew  back 

awhile, 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless 

cry 
Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and 

night 
Involved  and  swallowed   up  the  vision; 

sleep, 
Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course, 
Rolled  back   its   impulse    on   his  vacant 

brain. 

Roused  by  the  shock  he  started  from 

his  trance  — 
The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue 

moon 
Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 
The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods, 
Spread    round    him     where     he     stood. 

Whither  have  fled 
The   hues  of    heaven  that    canopied    his 

bower 
Of  yesternight?    The  sounds  that  soothed 

his  sleep, 


io8 


A  LAS  TOR:    OR 


The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 
The  joy,  the  exultation?     His  wan  eyes 
Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 
As  ocean's  moon  looks  on   the   moon   in 

heaven. 
The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 
A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 
Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 
Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting 

shade; 
He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas  !   alas  ! 
Were  limbs,  and  breath,  and  being  inter- 
twined 
Thus  treacherously?      Lost,  lost,  forever 

lost, 
In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep, 
That  beautiful  shape  !     Does  the  dark  gate 

of  death 
Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 
O  Sleep?     Does  the  bright  arch  of  rain- 
bow clouds, 
And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm 

lake, 
Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth, 
While  death's  blue  vault,  with  loathliest 

vapors  hung, 
Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave 

exhales 
Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day, 
Conducts,    O    Sleep,    to     thy  delightful 

realms? 
This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed  on  his 

heart; 
The  insatiate  hope   which    it    awakened 

stung 
His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion 

came, 
Like   the   fierce  fiend  of    a    distempered 

dream, 
And   shook   him  from  his  rest,   and   led 

him  forth 
Into  the  darkness.  — As  an  eagle,  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her 

breast 
Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 
Through    night    and    day,    tempest    and 

calm  and  cloud, 
Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind 

flight 


O'er    the    wide    aery    wilderness:    thus 

driven 
By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream, 
Beneath   the  cold  glare   of    the  desolate 

night, 
Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  pre- 
cipitous dells, 
Startling  with  careless  step  the  moon-light 

snake, 
He  fled.     Red  morning  dawned  upon  his 

flight, 
Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 
Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He  wandered 

on 
Till  vast  Aornos  seen  from  Petra's  steep 
Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud; 
Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated 

tombs 
Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 
Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered 

on, 
Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours, 
Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 
That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 
And  now  his  limbs  were  lean;    his  scat- 
tered hair 
Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffering 
Sung  dirges  in  the  wind;  his  listless  hand 
Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered 

skin; 
Life,  and    the    lustre    that    consumed    it, 

shone 
As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 
From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 
Who  ministered  with  human  charity 
His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering 

awe 
Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 
Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 
That    spectral    form,    deemed     that     the 

Spirit  of  wind 
With   lightning   eyes,  and   eager   breath, 

and  feet 
Disturbing   not    the    drifted    snow,     had 

paused 
In  its  career:    the  infant  would  conceal 
His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 
In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes, 
To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many 

a  dream 
Of    after-times;     but    youthful    maidens, 

taught 


-SHE   SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 


By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 

That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with 
false  names 

Brother,  and  friend,  would  press  his  pal- 
lid hand 

At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears, 
the  path 

Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 


At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian 

shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.      A    strong    impulse 

urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was 

there, 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached,  and  with  strong 

wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright 

course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His    eyes    pursued    its     flight,  —  "Thou 

hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird;     thou  voyagest   to   thine 

home, 
Where    thy  sweet    mate    will    twine  her 

downy  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with 

eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far   sweeter   than    thy    dying 

notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more 

attuned 
To     beauty,     wasting     these    surpassing 

powers 
In  the   deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and 

heaven 
That    echoes    not    my    thoughts?  "       A 

gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering 

lips. 
For   sleep,   he  knew,   kept  most  relent- 
lessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  ex- 
posed, 
Faithless   perhaps    as    sleep,  a    shadowy 

lure, 
With  doubtful    smile    mocking    its    own 

strange  charms. 


Startled  by  his  own  thoughts  he  looked 
around. 
I  There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a 

sight 
I  Or  sound  of  awe   but    in    his  own   deep 

mind. 
I   A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught   the   impatient   wandering  of  his 

gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 
Gaped    wide    with  many  a  rift,   and  its 

frail  joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And    meet    lone    Death    on    the    drear 

ocean's  waste; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow 

loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny;  sea  and 
sky    _ 

Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the 
wind 

Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blacken- 
ing the  waves. 

Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 

Leaped  in  the  boat;  he  spread  his  cloak 
aloft 

On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely 
seat, 

And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil 
sea 

Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 
Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 
Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 
Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 
The  straining  boat.     A  whirlwind  swept 

it  on, 
With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force, 
Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed 

sea. 
The   waves  arose.     Higher   and    higher 

still 
Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the 

tempest's  scourge 
Like   serpents  struggling   in  a  vulture's 

grasp. 
Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  ruining  on  wave,  and  blast   on 

blast 


A LAS  TOR;    OR 


Descending,  and   black  flood  on  whirl- 
pool driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate: 
As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 
Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Holding  the  steady  helm.     Evening  came 

on, 
The  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow 

hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted 

spray 
That    canopied  his    path  o'er  the  waste 

deep; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided 

locks 
O'er   the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of 

day; 
Night    followed,   clad    with    stars.       On 

every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual 

war 
Rushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to 

mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.      The  little 

boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm;    still  fled,  like 

foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven 

wave; 
Now    leaving    far    behind    the    bursting 

mass 
That    fell,     convulsing     ocean  ;      safely 

fled  — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form, 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose :   and  lo  !    the  ethereal 

cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose  caverned  base  the  whirlpools  and 

the  waves 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly 
Rage  and  resound  forever.  —  Who  shall 

save  ?  — - 
The  boat  fled  on,  —  the  boiling  torrent 

drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and 

jagged  arms, 


The    shattered    mountain    overhung    the 

sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth 

wave, 
The   little    boat  was  driven.     A    cavern 

there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding 

depths 
Ingulfed    the    rushing   sea.      The    boat 

fled  on 
With  unrelaxing  speed.  —  "Vision  and 

Love  !  ' ' 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.     Sleep  and 

death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long  !  " 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of   the  cavern.     Daylight 

shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow; 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the 

waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 
The    boat    moved    slowly.      Where    the 

mountain,  riven, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure 

sky, 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That   shook   the    everlasting    rocks,    the 

mass 
Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample 

chasm ; 
Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose, 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant 

arms 
In  darkness  over  it.     I'  the   midst  was 

left, 
Reflecting,  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 
A  pool  of    treacherous  and    tremendous 

calm. 
Seized    by    the    sway    of    the    ascending 

stream, 
With    dizzy  swiftness,  round    and  round 

and  round, 
Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose, 
Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve, 
Where,  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky 

bank, 


THE  SPIRIT  OE  SOLITUDE. 


The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  spot 

Of  glassy  quiet  mid  those  battling  tides 

Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering.  — 
Shall  it  sink 

Down  the  abyss !      Shall   the    reverting 
stress 

Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it? 

Now  shall  it  fall  ?  —  A  wandering  stream 
of  wind, 

Breathed  from  the  west,  has  caught  the 
expanded  sail, 

And,  lo !  with    gentle  motion,  between 
banks 

Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream, 

Beneath    a  woven    grove    it   sails,    and, 
hark  ! 

The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar, 

With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musi- 
cal woods. 

Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and 
leave 

A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 

Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow 
flowers 

Forever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes, 

Reflected    in    the    crystal    calm.       The 
wave 

Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  their  pen- 
sive task, 

Which  naught  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton 
wind, 

Or  falling  spear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 

Had    e'er  disturbed    before.     The    Poet 
longed 

To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  with- 
ered hair, 

But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned, 

And  he  forbore.     Not  the  strong  impulse 
hid 

In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes,  and 
shadowy  frame 

Had  yet  performed  its  ministry:    it  hung 

Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 

Gleams,  hovering  ere   it  vanish,  ere  the 
floods 

Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 

Now   shone   upon   the   forest,   one    vast 
mass 

Of  mingling  shade,  whose   brown  mag- 
nificence 

A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     There,  huge 
caves, 


Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  their  aery 

rocks 
Mocking    its    moans,   respond    and  roar 

forever. 
The    meeting    boughs    and    implicated 

leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as,  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  God,  or  mightier 

Death, 
He  sought   in   Nature's    dearest    haunt, 

some  bank, 
Her   cradle,    and    his  sepulchre.     More 

dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate.     The 

oak, 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms, 
Embraces   the   light  beech.     The  pyra- 
mids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching  frame 
Most    solemn    domes    within,    and    far 

below, 
Like   clouds   suspended   in    an    emerald 

sky, 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 
Tremulous    and     pale.       Like     restless 

serpents,  clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 
Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow 

around 
The    gray    trunks,    and,    as    gamesome 

infants'  eyes, 
With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent 

wiles, 
Fold   their  beams   round    the   hearts   of 

those  that  love, 
These    twine     their    tendrils    with    the 

wedded  boughs, 
Uniting    their    close    union;   the    woven 

leaves 
Make  net-work  of  the  dark  blue  light  of 

day, 
And    the    night's     noontide     clearness, 

mutable 
As    shapes    in    the   weird    clouds.     Soft 

mossy  lawns 
Beneath    these    canopies    extend    their 

swells, 
Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed 

with  blooms 
Minute  yet  beautiful.     One  darkest  glen 
Sends    from    its    woods    of    musk-rose, 

twined  with  jasmine, 
A  soul-dissolving  odor,  to  invite 


A  LAS  TOR;    OR 


To  some  more  lovely  mystery.     Through 

the  dell, 
Silence  and  Twilight   here,   twin-sisters, 

keep 
Their   noonday   watch,    and   sail   among 

the  shades, 
Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen;  beyond, 

a  well, 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent 

wave, 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above, 
And    each    depending    leaf,    and    every 

speck 
Of    azure    sky,    darting    between    their 

chasms; 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between   one  foliaged   lattice   twinkling 

fair, 
Or   painted  bird,   sleeping   beneath   the 

moon, 
Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motionless, 
Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of 

noon. 


Hither    the     Poet    came.      His    eyes 

beheld 
Their    own   wan    light    through    the  re- 
flected lines 
Of    his    thin    hair,    distinct   in  the   dark 

depth 
Of    that    still    fountain;    as    the    human 

heart, 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there. 

He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that 

sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even 

to  feel 
An    unaccustomed    presence,     and    the 

sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret 

springs 
Of   that   dark    fountain   rose.       A    Spirit 

seemed 
To    stand    beside    him  —  clothed    in    no 

bright  robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light, 
Borrowed   from  aught   the  visible   world 

affords 


Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery;  — 
But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 
And  leaping  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now    deepening    the    dark    shades,    for 

speech  assuming, 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 
Were    all    that   was,  —  only   .   .   .  when 

his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness,   .   .   . 

two  eyes, 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung   in  the  gloom  of 

thought, 
And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure 

smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That    shone   within    his   soul,   he   went, 

pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell.     The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green 

ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes  it 

fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and    profound.     Now  on  the  pol- 
ished   stones 
It  danced,  like  childhood  laughing  as  it 

went : 
Then     through    the    plain    in    tranquil 

wanderings  crept. 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  itsquietness. — "Ostream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound, 
Whither   do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend? 
Thou  imagest    my  life.     Thy  darksome 

stillness, 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow 

gulfs, 
Thy   searchless    fountain,    and    invisible 

course 
Have    each    their   type   in    me:  and   the 

wide  sky, 
And  measureless   ocean   may   declare   as 

soon 
What   oozy  cavern    or   what   wandering 

cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  reside, 

when  stretched 
Upon    thy    flowers    my    bloodless    limbs 

shall  waste 
j    I'  the  passing  wind  !  " 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 


ii.l 


Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of   the    small    stream   he   went;   he   did 

impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step, 

that  caught 
Strong     shuddering     from     his     burning 

limbs.     As    one 
Roused   by   some   joyous    madness    from 

the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move;   yet  not  like  him 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the 

flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps  he 

went 
Beneath  the  shade   of   trees,   beside  the 

flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet;  and  now 
The      forest's    solemn     canopies     were 

changed 
For   the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening 

sky. 
Gray    rocks    did    peep    from    the    spare 

moss,  and  stemmed 
The    struggling    brook:     tall    spires    of 

windlestrae 
Threw    their    thin    shadows    down    the 

rugged  slope, 
And  naught  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient 

pines 
Branchless    and    blasted,    clenched  with 

grasping  roots 
The    unwilling  soil.     A  gradual   change 

was  here, 
Vet    ghastly.       For,    as    fast    years    flow 

away, 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair 

grows  thin 
And    white,   and    where    irradiate    dewy 

eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs:  — so  from 

his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beauti- 
ful shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odor- 
ous winds 
And    musical    motions.      Calm,    he    still 

pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume  now 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell;  and 

there 
Fretted  a   path    through    its  descending 

curves, 


With    its    wintry  speed.     On  every  side 

now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms, 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and,  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
Mid    toppling    stones,    black    gulfs    and 

yawning  caves, 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  vari- 
ous tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.     Lo  !  where  the  pass 

expands 
Its    stony    jaws,    the    abrupt    mountain 

breaks, 
And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags, 
To  overhang  the  world :   for  wide  expand 
Beneath    the    wan  stars  and  descending 

moon 
Islanded    seas,    blue    mountains,   mighty 
streams, 
i   Dim  tracts  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous 
gloom 
Of  leaden-colored  even,  and  fiery  hills 
|   Mingling   their  flames  with  twilight,  on 

the  verge 
j   Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene, 
I   In  naked  and  severe  simplicity, 
I   Made    contrast    with    the    universe.     A 

pine, 
j   Rock-rooted,     stretched       athwart      the 

vacancy 
|   Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant 

blast 
!   Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause 
j   In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The  thunder   and    the   hiss  of    homeless 
streams 
:   Mingling    its    solemn    song,    whilst    the 
broad  river, 
Foaming    and    hurrying  o'er    its   rugged 

path, 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void 
Scattering  its  waters  to  the  passing  winds. 

Yet  the  gray  precipice  and  solemn  pine 
j   And  torrent  were   not  all;  — one  silent 

nook 
;   Was  there.      Even  on   the  edge  of  that 

vast  mountain, 
,   Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 

It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 
J  The  dark  earth,   and  the  bending  vault 
of  stars. 


114 


ALAS  TOR;    OR 


It   was    a  tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to 

smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 
The    fissured    stones    with    its  entwining 

arms, 
And    did    embower  with   leaves    forever 

green, 
And  berries  dark,  the   smooth  and  even 

space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor;  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind 

bore, 
In    wanton    sport,    those    bright    leaves, 

whose  decay, 
Red,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale, 
Rivals  the  pride  of  summer.      'T  is  the 

haunt 
Of   every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can    \ 

teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.    One  step, 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 
The  stillness  of  its  solitude;  — one  voice    j 
Alone   inspired  its   echoes;— even   that    ' 

voice 
Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the   j 

winds, 
And    led    the    loveliest    among    human 

forms 
To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 
Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 
Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 
Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm, 
And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern 

mould, 
Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching 

moss, 
Commit  the  colors  of  that  varying  cheek, 
That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  droop- 
ing eyes. 

The  dim  and  horned  moon  hung  low, 

and  poured 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That  overflowed  its  mountains.      Yellow 

mist 
Filled    the   unbounded   atmosphere,   and 

drank 
Wan  moonlight   even   to  fulness:    not  a 

star 
Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard;    the  very 

winds, 
Danger's   grim  playmates,  on  that  preci- 


Slept,  clasped  in  his  embrace.  —  O,  storrr 

of  death  ! 
Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen 

night : 
And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 
Guiding  its  irresistible  career 
In  thy  devastating  omnipotence, 
Art  king  of  this  frail  world !  from  the  red 

field 
Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital, 
The    patriot's   sacred  couch,   the    snowy 

bed 
Of  innocence,  the  scaffold  and  the  throne, 
A  mighty  voice  invokes  thee.     Ruin  calls 
His    brother    Death.     A  rare  and  regal 

prey 
He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the 

world; 
Glutted  with  which  thou  mayst  repose, 

and  men 
Go  to  their  graves  like  flowers  or  creep- 
ing worms, 
Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 
The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of   the  green 

recess 
The  wanderer's    footsteps  fell,  he  knew 

•  that  death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now, 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when 

they  breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.  He 

did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.      Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did 

rest, 
Diffused  and   motionless,  on  the  smooth 

brink 
Of   that  obscurest  chasm  ;  —  and   thus  he 

lay, 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers  of  life.      Hope  and 

Despair, 
The   torturers,  slept;    no   mortal   pain   or 

fear 
Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 
And  his  own  being,  unalloyed  by  pain, 
Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 


THE   SPIRIT  OE  SOLITUDE. 


The    stream    of    thought,     till    he    lay 

breathing  there 
At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling.     His  ia^t 

sight 
Was    the    great    moon,    which    o'er   the 

western  line 
Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  sus- 
pended, 
With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven   dark- 
ness seemed 
To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 
It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame 
Of    the    vast    meteor    sunk,    the    Poet's 

blood, 
That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler 

still : 
And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light 

alone 
Gleamed    through     the     darkness,     the 

alternate  gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night :  —  till   the  minutest 

ray 
Was  quenched,    the    pulse   yet   lingered 

in  his  heart. 
It     paused  —  it     fluttered.      But     when 

heaven  remained 
Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 
An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless, 
As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant 

air. 
Even  as  a  vapor  fed  with  golden  beams 
That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 
Eclipses    it,     was    now    that    wondrous 

frame  — 
No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity  — 
A    fragile    lute,    on    whose    harmonious 

strings 
The   breath   of  heaven    did    wander  —  a 

bright  stream 
Once   fed   with   many-voiced   waves  —  a 

dream 
Of  youth,   which  night    and    time    have 

quenched  forever, 
Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  unremembered 

now. 

O,  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchemy, 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth 

gleam 
With   bright    flowers,    and    the    wintry 
boughs  exhale 


From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance  !     O, 

that  God, 
Profuse  of   poisons,  would   concede  the 

chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained, 

who  now, 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that 

feels 
No   proud    exemption    in    the    blighting 

curse 
He  bears,  over   the  world  wanders  for- 
ever, 
Lone   as  incarnate  death !     O,  that  the 

dream 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave, 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble 

hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 
Of  this  so  lovely  world  !     But   thou  art 

fled 
Like   some   frail    exhalation,   which    the 

dawn 
Robes  in  its  golden  beams,  —  ah  !  thou 

hast  fled  ! 
The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful, 
The  child  of  grace  and  genius.     Heart- 
less things 
Are    done    and    said    i'   the  world,    and 

many  worms 
And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty 

Earth 
From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilder- 
ness, 
In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 
Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice:  — but  thou 

art  fled  — 
Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the 

shapes 
Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to 

thee 
Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas  ! 
Now  thou  art   not.     Upon    those  pallid 

lips 
So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those 

eyes 
That  image   sleep  in   death,    upon   that 

form 
Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no 

tear 
Be  shed  —  not    even   in    thought.     Nor 

when  those  hues 
Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments, 


n6       NOTE    ON  ALASTOR;    OR    THE   SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE 


Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,   shall  live 

alone 
In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain, 
Let     not     high     verse,     mourning     the 

memory 
Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's 

wo 
Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 
Their  own  cold  powers.     Art   and   elo- 
quence, 
And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world  are  frail 

and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  lights  to 

shade. 
It  is  a  wo  too  "deep  for  tears,"  when 

all 
Is   reft  at  once,   when  some  surpassing 

Spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around 

it,  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind,  not  sobs  or 

groans, 
The    passionate    tumult    of    a    clinging 

hope; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human 

things, 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they 

were. 


NOTE   ON   ALASTOR   BY   MRS. 
SHELLEY. 

' '  Alastor  ' '  is  written  in  a  very  different 
tone  from  "  Queen  Mab."  In  the  latter, 
Shelley  poured  out  all  the  cherished  spec- 
ulations of  his  youth  —  all  the  irrepres- 
sible emotions  of  sympathy,  censure,  and 
hope,  to  which  the  present  suffering, 
and  what  he  considers  the  proper  des- 
tiny, of  his  fellow-creatures,  gave  birth. 
"Alastor,"  on  the  contrary,  contains  an 
individual  interest  only.  A  very  few 
years,  with  their  attendant  events,  had 
checked  the  ardor  of  Shelley's  hopes, 
though  he  still  thought  them  well 
grounded,  and  that  to  advance  their  ful- 
filment was  the  noblest  task  man  could 
achieve. 

This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to 
speak  of  the  misfortunes  that  checkered 


his  life.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that, 
in  all  he  did,  he  at  the  time  of  doing  it 
believed  himself  justified  to  his  own  con- 
science; while  the  various  ills  of  poverty 
and  loss  of  friends  brought  home  to  him 
the  sad  realities  of  life.  Physical  suffer- 
ing had  also  considerable  influence  in 
causing  him  to  turn  his  eyes  inward;  in- 
clining him  rather  to  brood  over  the 
thoughts  and  emotions  of  his  own  soul 
than  to  glance  abroad,  and  to  make,  as  in 
"Queen  Mab,"  the  whole  universe  the  ob- 
ject and  subject  of  his  song.  In  the  spring 
of  1815  an  eminent  physician  pronounced 
that  he  was  dying  rapidly  of  a  consump- 
tion; abscesses  were  formed  on  his  lungs, 
and  he  suffered  acute  spasms.  Sud- 
denly a  complete  change  took  place; 
and,  though  through  life  he  was  a  martyr 
to  pain  and  debility,  every  symptom  of 
pulmonary  disease  vanished.  His  nerves, 
which  nature  had  formed  sensitive  to  an 
unexampled  degree,  were  rendered  still 
more  susceptible  by  the  state  of  his 
health. 

As  soon  as  the  peace  of  18 14  had 
opened  the  Continent,  he  went  abroad. 
He  visited  some  of  the  more  magnificent 
scenes  of  Switzerland,  and  returned  to 
England  from  Lucerne,  by  the  Reuss  and 
the  Rhine.  The  river-navigation  en- 
chanted him.  In  his  favorite  poem  of 
"  Thalaba,"  his  imagination  had  been  ex- 
cited by  a  description  of  such  a  voyage. 
In  the  summer  of  181 5,  after  a  tour 
along  the  southern  coast  of  Devonshire 
and  a  visit  to  Clifton,  he  rented  a  house 
on  Bishopgate  Heath,  on  the  borders  of 
Windsor  Forest,  where  he  enjoyed  sev- 
eral months  of  comparative  health  and 
tranquil  happiness.  The  later  summer 
months  were  warm  and  dry.  Accompa- 
nied by  a  few  friends,  he  visited  the 
source  of  the  Thames,  making  a  voyage 
in  a  wherry  from  Windsor  to  Cricklaue. 
His  beautiful  stanzas  in  the  churchyard 
of  Lechlade  were  written  on  that  occa- 
sion. V  Alastor  ' '  was  composed  on  his  re- 
turn. He  spent  his  days  under  the  oak- 
shades  of  Windsor  Great  Park;  and  the 
magnificent  woodland  was  a  fitting  study 
to  inspire  the  various  descriptions  of 
forest-scenery  we  find  in  the  poem. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


17 


None  of  Shelley's  poems  is  more  char- 
acteristic than  this.  The  solemn  spirit 
that  reigns  throughout,  the  worship  of 
the  majesty  of  nature,  the  broodings  of  a 
poet's  heart  in  solitude  —  the  mingling  of 
the  exulting  joy  which  the  various  aspects 
of  the  visible  universe  inspire,  with  the 
sad  and  struggling  pangs  which  human 
passion  imparts,  give  a  touching  inter- 
est to  the  whole.  The  death  which  he 
had  often  contemplated  during  the  last 
months  as  certain  and  near  he  here  repre- 
sented in  such  colors  as  had,  in  his  lonely 
musings,  soothed  his  soul  to  peace.  The 
versification  sustains  the  solemn  spirit 
which  breathes  throughout :  it  is  pecul- 
iarly melodious.  The  poem  ought  rather 
co  be  considered  didactic  than  narrative : 
it  was  the  outpouring  of  his  own  emo- 
tions, embodied  in  the  purest  form  he 
could  conceive,  painted  in  the  ideal  hues 
which  his  brilliant  imagination  inspired, 
and  softened  by  the  recent  anticipation 
of  death. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


A   POEM    IN    TWELVE   CANTOS. 
Otrais     £1     Pporbv     edvog      ayXuiatg      airrbjxtcda 


Tltoaivft  i:obg  to^arov 

n?.6oV  vauai  <5"  ovrt  irfPjbi  iibv  uv  rvpotg 

'Es  VTZipiJoolwv  (iyii'a  Oavfiardv  bhdv. 

UivL  YlvQ.  x. 

PREFACE. 

The  poem  which  I  now  present  to  the 
world  is  an  attempt  from  which  I  scarcely 
dare  to  expect  success,  and  in  which  a 
writer  of  established  fame  might  fail 
without  disgrace.  It  is  an  experiment 
on  the  temper  of  the  public  mind,  as  to 
how  far  a  thirst  for  a  happier  condition 
of  moral  and  political  society  survives, 
among  the  enlightened  and  refined,  the 
tempests  which  have  shaken  the  age  in 
which  we  live.  I  have  sought  to  enlist 
the  harmony  of  metrical  language,  the 
ethereal  combinations  of  the  fancy,  the 
rapid  and  subtle  transitions  of  human 
passion,  all  those  elements  which  essen- 


tially compose  a  Poem,  in  the  cause  of  a 
]   liberal  and  comprehensive  morality;    and 
in    the     view     of    kindling    within    the 
bosoms  of  my  readers  a  virtuous  enthusi- 
asm   for    those    doctrines   of   liberty   and 
justice,  that  faith  and  hope  in   something 
!   good,  which  neither  violence  nor  misrep- 
I   resentation  nor  prejudice  can  ever  totally 
extinguish  among  mankind. 

For  this  purpose  I  have  chosen  a  story 
j  of  human  passion  in  its  most  universal 
1  character,  diversified  with  moving  and 
[  romantic  adventures,  and  appealing,  in 
j  contempt  of  all  artificial  opinions  or  in- 
i  stitutions,  to  the  common  sympathies  of 
every  human  breast.  I  have  made  no 
j  attempt  to  recommend  the  motives  which 
I  I  would  substitute  for  those  at  present 
governing  mankind,  by  methodical  and 
systematic  argument.  I  would  only 
j  awaken  the  feelings,  so  that  the  reader 
should  see  the  beauty  of  true  virtue,  and 
be  incited  to  those  inquiries  which  have 
led  to  my  moral  and  political  creed,  and 
that  of  some  of  the  sublimest  intellects  in 
the  world.  The  Poem  therefore  (with 
the  exception  of  the  first  canto,  which  is 
purely  introductory)  is  narrative,  not 
didactic.  It  is  a  succession  of  pictures 
illustrating  the  growth  and  progress  of 
individual  mind  aspiring  after  excellence, 
and  devoted  to  the  love  of  mankind;  its 
influence  in  refining  and  making  pure  the 
most  daring  and  uncommon  impulses  of 
the  imagination,  the  understanding,  and 
the  senses;  its  impatience  at  "  all  the 
oppressions  that  are  done  under  the 
sun;  "  its  tendency  to  awaken  public 
hope,  and  to  enlighten  and  improve  man- 
kind; the  rapid  effects  of  the  application 
of  that  tendency;  the  awakening  of  an 
immense  nation  from  their  slavery  and 
degradation  to  a  true  sense  of  moral  dig- 
nity and  freedom;  the  bloodless  de- 
thronement of  their  oppressors,  and  the 
unveiling  of  the  religious  frauds  by  which 
they  had  been  deluded  into  submission; 
the  tranquillity  of  successful  patriotism, 
and  the  universal  toleration  and  benevo- 
lence of  true  philanthropy;  the  treachery 
and  barbarity  of  hired  soldiers;  vice  not 
the  object  of  punishment  and  hatred,  but 
kindness  and  pity;     the    faithlessness  of 


uS 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


tyrants;  the  confederacy  of  the  Rulers 
of  the  World,  and  the  restoration  of  the 
expelled  Dynasty  by  foreign  arms;  the 
massacre  and  extermination  of  the  patri- 
ots, and  the  victory  of  established  power; 
the  consequences  of  legitimate  despotism, 
—  civil  war,  famine,  plague,  superstition, 
and  an  utter  extinction  of  the  domestic 
affections;  the  judicial  murder  of  the  ad- 
vocates of  Liberty;  the  temporary  tri- 
umph of  oppression,  that  secure  earnest 
of  its  final  and  inevitable  fall;  the  tran- 
sient '^ture  of  ignorance  and  error,  and 
the  e  ,nity  of  genius  and  virtue.  Such 
is  the  series  of  delineations  of  which  the 
Poem  consists.  And,  if  the  lofty  pas- 
sions with  which  it  has  been  my  scope  to 
distinguish  this  story  shall  not  excite  in 
the  reader  a  generous  impulse,  an  ardent 
thirst  for  excellence,  an  interest  profound 
and  strong  such  as  belongs  to  no  meaner 
desires,  let  not  the  failure  be  imputed  to 
a  natural  unfitness  for  human  sympathy 
in  these  sublime  and  animating  themes. 
It  is  the  business  of  the  Poet  to  commu- 
nicate to  others  the  pleasure  and  the  en- 
thusiasm arising  out  of  those  images  and 
feelings  in  the  vivid  presence  of  which 
within  his  own  mind  consists  at  once  his 
inspiration  and  his  reward. 

The  panic  which,  like  an  epidemic 
transport,  seized  upon  all  classes  of  men 
•during  the  excesses  consequent  upon  the 
French  Revolution,  is  gradually  giving 
place  to  sanity.  It  has  ceased  to  be 
believed  that  whole  generations  of  man- 
kind ought  to  consign  themselves  to  a 
hopeless  inheritance  of  ignorance  and 
misery,  because  a  nation  of  men  who 
had  been  dupes  and  slaves  for  centuries 
were  incapable  of  conducting  themselves 
with  the  wisdom  and  tranquillity  of  free- 
men so  soon  as  some  of  their  fetters 
were  partially  loosened.  That  their  con- 
duct could  not  have  been  marked  by 
any  other  characters  than  ferocity  and 
thoughtlessness  is  the  historical  fact  from 
which  liberty  derives  all  its  recommenda- 
tions, and  falsehood  the  worst  features  of 
its  deformity.  There  is  a  reflux  in  the 
tide  of  human  things  which  bears  the 
shipwrecked  hopes  of  men  into  a  secure 
haven   after   the   storms    are    past.     Me- 


thinks,  those  who  now  live  have  survived 
an  age  of  despair. 

The   French   Revolution  may   be   con- 
sidered as  one  of  those  manifestations  of 
a  general  state  of  feeling  among  civilized 
mankind  produced  by  a  defect  of  corre- 
spondence between  the  knowledge  exist- 
ing   in    society  and    the  improvement    or 
gradual  abolition  of  political  institutions. 
The   year   1788    may   be   assumed    as  the 
epoch    of     one    of     the    most     important 
crises    produced    by    this    feeling.       The 
I   sympathies    connected    with    that     event 
\   extended    to    every    bosom.       The    most 
generous  and  amiable  natures  were  those 
which  participated    the   most    extensively 
in  these  sympathies.     But  such  a  degree 
of    unmingled   good   was  expected   as  it 
was  impossible  to  realize.     If  the  Revo- 
lution had  been  in  every  respect   prosper- 
ous, then  misrule  and  superstition  would 
lose  half  their  claims  to  our  abhorrence, 
j   as  fetters  which   the    captive   can   unlock 
with  the  slightest  motion  of  his  fingers, 
!   and  which  do  not  eat  with  poisonous  rust 
into  the  soul.      The  revulsion  occasioned 
by  the  atrocities  of  the   demagogues,  and 
j   the  re-establishment  of  successive  tyran- 
I   nies  in  France,  was  terrible,  and  felt  in 
!   the  remotest  corner  of  the  civilized  world. 
s  Could  they  listen   to   the   plea    of  reason 
who  had  groaned  under  the  calamities  of 
'   a  social  state  according  to  the  provisions 
of  which  one  man  riots  in  luxury  whilst 
another  famishes  for  want  of  bread?     Can 
j   he  who   the   day   before   was   a   trampled 
slave    suddenly    become    liberal-minded, 
forbearing,    and    independent?      This    is 
j   the  consequence  of  the  habits  of  a  state 
i   of    society   to    be    produced    by    resolute 
perseverance  and  indefatigable  hope,  and 
j   long-suffering  and  long-believing  courage, 
I   and  the  systematic  efforts  of  generations 
of  men  of   intellect   and  virtue.      Such   is 
''•   the  lesson  which  experience  teaches  now. 
But,  on  the  first  reverses  of  hope  in   the 
j   progress  of   French   liberty,  the  sanguine 
1   eagerness  for  good  overleaped  the  solution 
I   of    these   questions,    and   for   a    time    ex- 
|   tinguished  itself  in  the  unexpectedness  of 
'   their    result.       Thus,    many   of   the   most 
ardent  and  tender-hearted  of  the  worship- 
1   pers   of  public  good   have   been    morally 


THE   REVOLT  OE  /SLAM. 


119 


ruined  by  what  a  partial  glimpse  of  the 
events  they  deplored  appeared  to  show 
as  the  melancholy  desolation  of  all  their 
cherished  hopes.  Hence  gloom  and  mis- 
anthropy have  become  the  characteristics 
of  the  age  in  which  we  live,  the  solace 
of  a  disappointment  that  unconsciously 
finds  relief  only  in  the  wilful  exaggera- 
tion of  its  own  despair.  This  influence 
has  tainted  the  literature  of  the  age  with 
the  hopelessness  of  the  minds  from 
which  it  flows.  Metaphysics,1  and  in- 
quiries into  moral  and  political  science, 
have  become  little  else  than  vain  attempts 
to  revive  exploded  superstitions,  or  soph- 
isms like  those'2  of  Mr.  Malthus,  calcu- 
lated to  lull  the  oppressors  of  mankind 
into  a  security  of  everlasting  triumph. 
Our  works  of  fiction  and  poetry  have 
been  overshadowed  by  the  same  infec- 
tious gloom.  But  mankind  appear  to  me 
to  be  emerging  from  their  trance.  I  am 
aware,  methinks,  of  a  slow,  gradual,  si- 
lent change.  In  that  belief  I  have  com- 
posed the  following  poem. 

I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  compe- 
tition with  our  greatest  contemporary 
Poets.  Yet  I  am  unwilling  to  tread  in  the 
footsteps  of  any  who  have  preceded  me. 
I  have  sought  to  avoid  the  imitation  of 
any  style  of  language  or  versification 
peculiar  to  the  original  minds  of  which  it 
is  the  character  ;  designing  that,  even  if 
what  I  have  produced  be  worthless,  it 
should  still  be  properly  my  own.  Nor 
have  I  permitted  any  system  relating  to 
mere  words  to  divert  the  attention  of  the 
reader,  from  whatever  interest  I  may  have 
succeeded  in  creating,  to  my  own  in- 
genuity in  contriving  to  disgust  him  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  of  criticism.  I  have 
simply  clothed   my  thoughts  in   what  ap- 


1  I  ought  to  except  Sir  W.  Drummond's  Aca- 
demical Questions ;  a  volume  of  very  acute  and 
powerful  metaphysical  criticism. 

2  It  is  remarkable,  as  a  symptom  of  the  revival 
of  public  hope,  that  Mr.  Malthus  has  assigned, 
in  the  later  editions  of  his  work,  an  indefinite 
dominion  to  moral  restraint  over  the  principle  of 
population.  This  concession  answers  all  the  in- 
ferences from  his  doctrine  unfavorable  to  human 
improvement,  and  reduces  the  Essay  on  Popula- 
tion to  a  commentary  illustrative  of  the  unanswer- 
ableuess  of  Political  Justice. 


peared  to  me  the  most  obvious  and  ap- 
propriate language.  A  person  familiar 
with  nature,  and  with  the  most  celebrated 
productions  of  the  human  mind,  can 
scarcely  err  in  following  the  instinct,  with 
respect  to  selection  of  language,  pro- 
duced by  that  familiarity. 

There  is  an  education  peculiarly  fitted 
for  a  Poet,    without  which    genius    and 
sensibility  can  hardly  fill    the    circle    of 
I   their  capacities.      No  education,  indeed, 
'   can  entitle  to  this  appellation  a  dull  and 
J   unobservant  mind,  or  one,  though  neither 
dull  nor  unobservant,  in  which  the  chan- 
j   nels  of    communication  between  thought 
and  expression  have  been  obstructed  or 
closed.      How  far  it  is  my  fortune  to  be- 
long to  either  of  the  latter  classes  I  can- 
not   know.     I    aspire    to    be    something 
better.     The  circumstances  of  my  acci- 
dental education  have  been  favorable  to 
this  ambition.     I  have  been  familiar  from 
:  boyhood  with  mountains  and  lakes  and 
■   the  sea,  and  the  solitude  of  forests:   Dan- 
ger, which  sports  upon  the  brink  of  preci- 
pices, has    been    my  playmate.     I  have 
trodden    the  glaciers  of    the    Alps,    and 
;   lived  under  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc.     I 
I  have    been    a    wanderer    among    distant 
fields.     I  have  sailed  down  mighty  rivers, 
and  seen  the  sun  rise  and  set,  and  the 
stars  come  forth,  whilst    I    have    sailed 
night  and  day  down  a  rapid  stream  among 
:   mountains.     I  have  seen  populous  cities, 
and   have    watched  the    passions    which 
rise  and  spread,  and  sink    and  change, 
amongst  assembled  multitudes   of    men. 
I  have  seen  the  theatre  of  the  more  visi- 
ble ravages  of  tyranny  and  war  ;    cities 
and  villages  reduced  to  scattered  groups 
of    black   and  roofless    houses,    and    the 
naked  inhabitants  sitting  famished   upon 
their  desolated  thresholds.      I  have  con- 
versed with  living  men  of    genius.      The 
poetry  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  and 
modern  Italy,  and  our  own  country,  has 
been    to    me,    like     external    nature,    a 
passion    and    an    enjoyment.      Such    are 
the  sources  from  which  the  materials  for 
the  imagery  of  my  Poem  have  been  drawn. 
I    have    considered    Poetry    in    its    most 
I   comprehensive  sense  ;  and  have  read  the 
i  poets  and  the  historians  and  the  meta- 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


physicians *  whose  writings  have  been 
accessible  to  me,  and  have  looked  upon 
the  beautiful  and  majestic  scenery  of  the 
earth,  as  common  sources  of  those  ele- 
ments which  it  is  the  province  of  the 
Poet  to  embody  and  combine.  Yet  the 
experience  and  the  feelings  to  which  I  re- 
fer do  not  in  themselves  constitute  men 
Poets,  but  only  prepare  them  to  be  the 
auditors  of  those  who  are.  How  far  I 
shall  be  found  to  possess  that  more  essen- 
tial attribute  of  Poetry,  the  power  of 
awakening  in  others  sensations  like  those 
which  animate  my  own  bosom,  is  that 
which,  to  speak  sincerely,  I  know  not; 
and  which,  with  an  acquiescent  and  con- 
tented spirit,  I  expect  to  be  taught  by  the 
effect  which  I  shall  produce  upon  those 
whom  I  now  address. 

I  have  avoided,  as  I  have  said  before, 
the  imitation  of  any  contemporary  style. 
But  there  must  be  a  resemblance,  which 
does  not  depend  upon  their  own  will,  be- 
tween all  the  writers  of  any  particular 
age.  They  cannot  escape  from  subjection 
to  a  common  influence  which  arises  out  of 
an  infinite  combination  of  circumstances 
belonging  to  the  times  in  which  they 
live;  though  each  is  in  a  degree  the 
author  of  the  very  influence  by  which  his 
being  is  thus  pervaded.  Thus,  the  tragic 
poets  of  the  age  of  Pericles  ;  the  Italian 
revivers  of  ancient  learning  ;  those  mighty 
intellects  of  our  own  country  that  suc- 
ceeded the  Reformation,  the  translators 
of  the  Bible,  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  the 
dramatists  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and 
Lord  Bacon  ;  '2  the  colder  spirits  of  the 
interval  that  succeeded  ;  —  all  resemble 
each  other,  and  differ  from  every  other 
in  their  several  classes.  In  this  view  of 
things,  Ford  can  no  more  be  called  the 
imitator  of  Shakspeare  than  Shakspeare 
the  imitator  of  Ford.  There  were  per- 
haps few  other  points  of  resemblance 
between  these  two   men  than  that  which 


1  In  this  sense  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as 
perfectibility  in  works  of  fiction,  notwithstanding 
the  concession  often  made  by  the  advocates  of 
human  improvement,  that  perfectibility  is  a  term 
applicable  only  to  science. 

2  Milton  stands  alone  in  the  age  whicli  lie 
iliumined. 


the  universal  and  inevitable  influence  of 
their  age  produced.  And  this  is  an  in- 
fluence which  neither  the  meanest  scrib- 
bler nor  the  sublimest  genius  of  any  era 

J   can   escape  ;    and  which   I  have  not  at- 

I   tempted  to  escape. 

I  have  adopted  the  stanza  of  Spenser 

'    (a  measure   inexpressibly  beautiful),   not 

I  because  I  consider  it  a  finer  model  of 
poetical  harmony  than  the  blank  verse  of 

[  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  but  because  in 
the  latter  there  is  no  shelter  for  medioc- 
rity ;  you  must  either  succeed  or  fail. 
This  perhaps  an  aspiring  spirit  should 
desire.  But  I  was  enticed  also  by  the 
brilliancy  and  magnificence  of  sound 
which  a  mind  that  has  been  nourished 
upon  musical  thoughts  can  produce  by  a 
just  and  harmonious  arrangement  of  the 
pauses  of  this  measure.  Yet  there  will 
be  found  some  instances  where  I  have 
completely  failed  in  this  attempt  :  and 
one,  which  I  here  request  the  reader  to 
consider  as  an  erratum,  where  there  is 
left,  most  inadvertently,  an  alexandrine 
in  the  middle  of  a  stanza. 

But  in  this  as  in  every  other  respect  I 
have  written  fearlessly.  It  is  the  mis- 
fortune of  this  age  that  its  writers,  too 
thoughtless  of  immortality,  are  exquisitely 
sensible  to  temporary  praise  or  blame. 
They  write  with  the  fear  of  Reviews  be- 
fore their  eyes.  This  system  of  criticism 
sprang  up  in  that  torpid  interval  when 
poetry  was  not.  Poetry,  and  the  arl 
which  professes  to  regulate  and  limit  its 
powers,  cannot  subsist  together.  Lon- 
ginus  could  not  have  been  the  contem- 
porary of  Homer,  nor  Boileauof  Horace. 
Yet  this  species  of  criticism  never  pre- 
sumed to  assert  an  understanding  of  its 
own:  it  has  always,  unlike  true  science, 
followed,  not  preceded,  the  opinion  of 
mankind,  and  would  even  now  bribe 
with  worthless  adulation  some  of  our 
greatest  Poets  to  impose  gratuitous  fetters 
on  their  own  imaginations,  and  become 
unconscious  accomplices  in  the  daily  mur- 
der of  all  genius  cither  not  so  aspiring  or 
not  so  fortunate  as  their  own.  I  have 
sought  therefore  to  write,  as  I  believe 
that    Homer,    Shakspeare,    and    Milton, 

i   wrote,   in   utter  disregard  of  anjnymous 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


censure.  I  am  certain  that  calumny  and 
misrepresentation,  though  it  may  move 
me  to  compassion  cannot  disturb  my 
peace.  I  shall  understand  the  expressive 
silence  of  those  sagacious  enemies  who 
dare  not  trust  themselves  to  speak.  I 
shall  endeavor  to  extract,  from  the  midst 
of  insult  and  contempt  and  maledictions, 
those  admonitions  which  may  tend  to 
correct  whatever  imperfections  such  cen- 
surers  may  discover  in  this  my  first  serious 
appeal  to  the  public.  If  certain  critics 
were  as  clear-sighted  as  they  are  ma- 
lignant, how  great  would  be  the  benefit 
derived  from  their  virulent  writings  !  As 
it  is,  I  fear  I  shall  be  malicious  enough  to 
be  amused  with  their  paltry  tricks  and 
lame  invectives.  Should  the  public  judge 
that  my  composition  is  worthless,  I  shall 
indeed  bow  before  the  tribunal  from 
which  Milton  received  his  crown  of  im- 
mortality ;  and  shall  seek  to  gather,  if  I 
live,  strength  from  that  defeat,  which 
may  nerve  me  to  some  new  enterprise  of 
thought  which  may  not  be  worthless.  I 
cannot  conceive  that  Lucretius,  when  he 
meditated  that  poem  whose  doctrines  are 
yet  the  basis  of  our  metaphysical  knowl- 
edge, and  whose  eloquence  has  been  the 
wonder  of  mankind,  wrote  in  awe  of 
such  censure  as  the  hired  sophists  of  the 
impure  and  superstitious  noblemen  of 
Rome  might  affix  to  what  he  should  pro- 
duce. It  was  at  the  period  when  Greece 
was  led  captive,  and  Asia  made  tributary 
to  the  Republic,  fast  verging  itself  to 
slavery  and  ruin,  that  a  multitude  of 
Syrian  captives,  bigoted  to  the  worship 
of  their  obscene  Ashtaroth,  and  the  un- 
worthy successors  of  Socrates  and  Zeno, 
found  there  a  precarious  subsistence  by 
administering,  under  the  name  of  freed- 
men,  to  the  vices  and  vanities  of  the 
great.  These  wretched  men  were  skilled 
to  plead,  with  a  superficial  but  plausible 
set  of  sophisms,  in  favor  of  that  contempt 
for  virtue  which  is  the  portion  of  slaves, 
and  that  faith  in  portents,  the  most  fatal 
substitute  for  benevolence  in  the  imagi- 
nations of  men,  which,  arising  from  the 
enslaved  communities  of  the  East,  then 


I  first  began  to  overwhelm  the  western  na- 

i   tions  in  its  stream.     Were  these  the  kind 

i   of    men  whose   disapprobation  the  wise 

J  and  lofty-minded  Lucretius  should   have 

|  regarded  with  a  salutary  awe?    The  latest 

and  perhaps   the  meanest  of  those   who 

follow  in  his  footsteps  would  disdain  to 

hold  life  on  such  conditions. 

The  Poem  now  presented  to  the  public 
occupied  little  more  than  six  months  in 
:  the  composition.  That  period  has  been 
devoted  to  the  task  with  unremitting 
ardor  and  enthusiasm.  I  have  exercised 
I  a  watchful  and  earnest  criticism  on  my 
I  work  as  it  grew  under  my  hands.  I 
would  willingly  have  sent  it  forth  to  the 
world  with  that  perfection  which  long 
labor  and  revision  is  said  to  bestow.  But 
I  found  that,  if  I  should  gain  something 
in  exactness  by  this  method,  I  might  lose 
much  of  the  newness  and  energy  of  im- 
agery and  language  as  it  flowed  fresh 
from  my  mind.  And,  although  the  mere 
composition  occupied  no  more  than  six 
months,  the  thoughts  thus  arranged  were 
slowly  gathered  in  as  many  years. 

I  trust  that  the  reader  will  carefully 
distinguish  between  those  opinions  which 
have  a  dramatic  propriety  in  reference  to 
the  characters  which  they  are  designed 
to  elucidate,  and  such  as  are  properly  my 
own.  The  erroneous  and  degrading  idea 
which  men  have  conceived  of  a  Supreme 
Being,  for  instance,  is  spoken  against, 
but  not  the  Supreme  Being  itself.  The 
belief  which  some  superstitious  persons 
whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  stage  en- 
tertain of  the  Deity,  as  injurious  to  the 
character  of  his  benevolence,  is  widely 
different  from  my  own.  In  recommend- 
ing also  a  great  and  important  change  in 
the  spirit  which  animates  the  social  in- 
stitutions of  mankind,  I  have  avoided  all 
flattery  to  those  violent  and  malignant 
passions  of  our  nature  which  are  ever  on 
the  watch  to  mingle  with  and  to  alloy  the 
most  beneficial  innovations.  There  is  no 
quarter  given  to  Revenge,  or  Envy,  or 
Prejudice.  Love  is  celebrated  everywhere 
as  the  sole  law  which  should  govern  the 
moral  world. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


DEDICATION. 

There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is:  there's  not  any 

law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge  :  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

Chapman. 


So  now  my    summer    task    is    ended, 
Mary, 
And  I   return    to    thee,    mine    own 
heart's  home; 
As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of 
Faery, 
Earning  bright    spoils    for    her    en- 
chanted dome; 
Nor  thou  disdain  that,  ere  my  fame 
become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If    it    indeed  may  cleave    its    natal 
gloom, 
Its    doubtful     promise     thus    I    would 
unite 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of 
love  and  light. 


The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many 
an  hour 
Is  ended  —  and  the   fruit  is  at  thy 
feet! 
No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame 
a  bower 
With   interlaced  branches  mix  and 

meet, 
Or    where,   with    sound    like    many 
voices  sweet, 
Waterfalls    leap    among    wild    islands 
green 
Which   framed   for   my  lone  boat   a 
lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall 
I  be  seen : 
But  beside   thee,  where    still    my  heart 
has  ever  been. 


Thoughts   of  great  deeds  were  mine, 
dear  Friend,  when  first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world 
from  youth  did  pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which 
burst 
My  spirit's  sleep  :  a  fresh  May-dawn 

it  was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glit- 
tering grass, 
And  wept,    I    knew    not    why:    until 
there  rose 
From   the   near    schoolroom   voices 
that,  alas  ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of 
woes  — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants 
and  of  foes. 


And  then  I  clasped    my    hands,    and 
looked  around, 
But    none    was    near    to    mock    my 
streaming  eyes, 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the 
sunny  ground  — 
So,  without  shame,   I  spake: — "I 

will  be  wise, 
And  just,   and  free,  and  mild,  if  in 
me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  be- 
hold 
The    selfish    and    the    strong    still 
tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then 
controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew   calm,   and   I 
was  meek  and  bold. 


And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest 
thought 
Heap    knowledge     from     forbidden 
mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or 
taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret 
store 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


123 


Wrought  linked  armor  for  my  soul, 
before 
It    might  walk    forth    to    war    among 
mankind; 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strength- 
ened more  and  more 
Within   me,  till  there  came  upon  my 
mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which 
I  pined. 


VI. 


Alas  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and 
snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in 
one  !  — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain;  then  black 
despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was 

thrown 
Over   the  world  in  which   I   moved 
alone :  — 
Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights 
of  icy  stone 
Which    crushed    and    withered   mine, 
that  could  not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  revived 
by  thee. 


Thou  Friend,  whose  presence  on  my 
wintry  heart 
Fell,  like  bright  Spring  upon  some 
herbless  plain, 
How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou 
wert 
In    thy    young    wisdom,    when    the 

mortal  chain 
Of    Custom    thou    didst    burst    and 
rend  in  twain, 
And  walk  as  free   as  light  the   clouds 
among, 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then 
breathed  in  vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit 
sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had 
begirt  it  long  ! 


No   more   alone    through   the   world's 
wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high 
intent, 
I  journeyed  now :  no  more  companion- 
less, 
Where    solitude    is    like   despair,    I 

went.  — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  con- 
tent 
When  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and 
good, 
When  Infamy  dares  mock  the  inno- 
cent, 
And   cherished  friends  turn  with  the 
multitude 
To   trample :  this  was  ours,  and  we  un- 
•  shaken  stood  ! 


Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour, 
And,  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends 
return; 
Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge 
and  the  power 
Which  says,  "  Let  scorn  be  not  re- 
paid with  scorn." 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes 
are  born 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus 
are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beam- 
ing morn : 
And    these   delights,    and    thou,    have 
been  to  me 
The  parents  of  the  Song  I  consecrate 
to  thee. 


Is  it  that  now  my  inexperienced   fin- 
gers 
But  strike   the   prelude   of  a  loftier 
strain? 
Or  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit 
lingers 
Soon  pause  in  silence,  ne'er  to  sound 

again,  _ 
Though  it  might  shake  the  Anarch 
Custom's  reign, 


124 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's 

And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute 

own  sway, 

to  hear  it, 

Holier    than    was    Amphion's?      I 

As  some  lone  man  who  in  a  desert 

would  fain 

hears 

Reply  in  hope  —  but  I  am  worn  away, 

The  music  of  his  home  : —  unwonted 

And  Death  and  Love  are  yet  contending 

fears 

for  their  prey. 

Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race, 

And    Faith    and   Custom  and    low- 

XI. 

thoughted  cares, 

Like  thunder-stricken   dragons,  for    a 

And  what  art  thou?     I  know,  but  dare 

space 

not  speak : 

Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food 

Time    may    interpret    to    his    silent 

and  dwelling-place. 

years. 

Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful 

XIV. 

cheek, 

And  in  the  light  thine  ample  fore- 

Truth's deathless  voice  pauses  among 

head  wears, 

mankind  ! 

And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in 

If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my 

thy  tears, 

cry  — 

And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 

If  men  must  rise  and  stamp,  with  fury 

Is  whispered,  to  subdue  my  fondest 

blind, 

fears : 

On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them, 

And,  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy 

—  thou  and  I, 

soul  I  see 

Sweet    friend !    can   look    from  our 

A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

tranquillity 

Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestu- 

XII. 

ous  night,  — 

Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are 

They  say   that  thou  wert  lovely  from 

passing  by 

thy  birth, 

Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering 

Of    glorious  parents,  thou  aspiring 

seaman's  sight, 

Child. 

That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unex- 

I wonder  not  —  for  One  then  left  this 

tinguished  light. 

earth 

Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet 

mild, 

CANTO   I. 

Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance 

undefiled 

I. 

Of  its  departing  glory;  still  her  fame 

Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests 

When  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France 

dark  and  wild 

had  failed 

Which  shake   these   latter   days;    and 

Like  a  brief  dream  of  unremaining 

thou  canst  claim 

glory, 

The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  immor- 

From visions   of   despair   I   rose,  and 

tal  name. 

scaled 

The  peak  of  an  aerial  promontory, 

XIII. 

Whose  caverned  base  with  the  vext 

surge  was  hoary; 

One  voice   came   forth   from    many  a 

And  saw  the  golden  dawn  break  forth, 

mighty  spirit 

and  waken 

Which  was  the  echo  of  three-thou- 

Each cloud   and  every  wave  :  —  but 

sand  years; 

transitory 

THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


125 


The  calm :    for  sudden  the  firm  earth 
was  shaken, 
As  if  by  the  last  wreck  its  frame  were 
overtaken. 


So  as  I  stood,  one  blast  of  muttering 
thunder 
Burst  -in  far  peals  along   the  wave- 
less  deep, 
When,  gathering  fast,  around,  above, 
and  under, 
Long  trains  of  tremulous  mist  began 

to  creep, 
Until   their    complicating    lines    did 
steep 
The    orient    sun    in  shadow: — not  a 
sound 
Was  heard;    one  horrible  repose  did 
keep 
The    forests    and   the   floods,  and    all 
around 
Darkness   more   dread   than   night  was 
poured  upon  the  ground. 


Hark  !  't  is  the  rushing  of  a  wind  that 
sweeps 
Earth    and    the    ocean.       See !    the 
lightnings  yawn 
Deluging  Heaven  with  fire,   and    the 
lashed  deeps 
Glitter   and   boil   beneath;   it  rages 

on, 
One  mighty  stream,  whirlwind  and 
waves  upthrown, 
Lightning  and  hail,  and  darkness  ed- 
dying by. 
There  is    a    pause — the    sea-birds, 
that  were  gone 
Into  their  caves  to  shriek,  come  forth, 
to  spy 
What    calm  has  fallen  on  earth,  what 
light  is  in  the  sky. 


IV. 


For,  where  the  irresistible  storm  had 
cloven 
That  fearful  darkness,  the  blue  sky 
was  seen 


Fretted  with  many  a  fair  cloud  inter- 
woven 
Most    delicately,     and    the     ocean 

green, 
Beneath  that  opening  spot  of  blue 
serene, 
Quivered  like  burning  emerald:   calm 
was  spread 
On    all    below;     but    far    on    high, 
between 
Earth  and  the  upper  air,  the  vast  clouds 
fled, 
Countless    and    swift   as  leaves  on  au- 
tumn's tempest  shed. 


For  ever,  as  the  war  became  more  fierce 

Between    the    whirlwinds    and    the 

rack  on  high, 

That    spot    grew    more    serene;    blue 

light  did  pierce 

The    woof    of    those  white    clouds, 

which  seemed  to  lie 
Far,   deep,   and  motionless;     while 
through  the  sky 
The  pallid  semicircle  of  the  moon 
Passed    on,    in    slow    and    moving 
majesty; 
Its  upper  horn  arrayed  in  mists,  which 
soon 
But  slowly  fled,  like  dew  beneath  the 
beams  of   noon. 


I  could  not  choose  but  gaze;  a  fascina- 
tion 
Dwelt    in   that  moon  and  sky  and 
clouds,  which  drew 
My  fancy  thither,  and  in  expectation 
Of  what,  I   knew  not,  I   remained: 

the  hue 
Of  the  white  moon,  amid  that  heaven 
so  blue, 
Suddenly    stained    with    shadow    did 
appear; 
A  speck,  a  cloud,  a  shape,  approach- 
ing grew, 
Like  a   great  ship  in  the  sun's  sink- 
ing sphere 
Beheld  afar  at  sea,  and  swift  it  came 
anear. 


126 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Even  like  a  bark,  which  from  a  chasm 
of  mountains, 
Dark,  vast,   and  overhanging,  on  a 
river 
Which  there  collects  the  strength  of 
all  its  fountains, 
Comes  forth,  whilst  with  the  speed 

its  frame  doth  quiver, 
Sails,   oars,   and  stream,  tending  to 
one  endeavor; 
So,  from  that  chasm  of  light  a  winged 
Form, 
On  all  the  winds  of  heaven  approach- 
ing ever, 
Floated,  dilating  as  it  came  :  the  storm 
Pursued  it  with  fierce  blasts,  and  light- 
nings swift  and  warm. 


A  course  precipitous,  of  dizzy  speed, 
Suspending  thought  and  breath;     a 
monstrous  sight ! 
For  in  the  air  do  I  behold  indeed 
An  Eagle  and  a  Serpent  wreathed 

in  fight : — 
And    now,    relaxing    its    impetuous 
flight 
Before    the    aerial    rock    on    which    I 
stood, 
The    Eagle,    hovering,    wheeled    to 
left  and  right, 
And  hung  with  lingering  wings  over 
the  flood, 
And  startled  with  its  yells  the  wide  air's 
solitude. 


A  shaft  of    light   upon  its   wings  de- 
scended, 
And  every  golden  feather  gleamed 
therein  — 
Feather  and  scale  inextricably  blended. 
The    Serpent's    mailed    and    many- 
colored  skin 
Shone  through  the  plumes  its  coils 
were  twined  within 
By   many  a  swoln   and    knotted   fold, 
and  high 
And  far  the  neck,  receding  lithe  and 
thin, 


Sustained  a  crested  head,  which  warily 
Shifted  and  glanced  before  the  Eagle's 
steadfast  eye. 


Around,    around,  in  ceaseless   circles 
wheeling 
"With    clang  of  wings   and  scream, 
the  Eagle  sailed 
Incessantly — sometimes  on  high  con- 
cealing 
Its  lessening  orbs,  sometimes,  as  if 

it  failed, 
Drooped  through  the  air;    and  still 
it  shrieked  and  wailed, 
And,  casting  back  its  eager  head,  with 
beak 
And  talon  unremittingly  assailed 
The  wreathed  Serpent,  who  did  ever 
seek 
Upon  his  enemy's  heart  a  mortal  wound 
to  wreak. 

XI. 

What  life,  what  power,   was  kindled 
and  arose 
Within  the  sphere  of  that  appalling 
fray ! 
For,  from  the  encounter  of  those  won- 
drous foes, 
A   vapor    like  the  sea's  suspended 

spray 
Hung  gathered :   in  the  void  air,  far 
away, 
Floated  the  shattered  plumes:   bright 
scales  did  leap, 
Where'er  the  Eagle's  talons  made 
their  way, 
Like    sparks  into    the  darkness; — as 
they  sweep, 
Blood    stains    the    snowy  foam    of    the 
tumultuous  deep. 


XII. 


Swift  chances  in  that  combat  —  many 
a  check, 
And  many  a  change,  a  dark  and  wild 
turmoil; 

Sometimes  the  Snake  around  his  ene- 
my's neck 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


[27 


Locked  in  stiff  rings  his  adamantine 

coil, 
Until  the  Eagle,  faint  with  pain  and 
toil, 
Remitted   his    strong  flight,  and  near 
the  sea 
Languidly  fluttered,  hopeless  so  to 
foil 
His    adversary,  who  then    reared   on 
high 
His  red  and  burning  crest,  radiant  with 
victory. 


Then  on  the  white  edge  of  the  burst- 
ing surge, 
Where    they    had     sunk    together, 
would  the  Snake 
Relax     his     suffocating      grasp,     and 
scourge 
The  wind   with  his  wild  writhings; 

for,  to  break 
That  chain  of  torment,  the  vast  bird 
would  shake 
The    strength    of    his    unconquerable 
wings 
As  in  despair,  and   with  his  sinewy 
neck 
Dissolve  in  sudden  shock  those  linked 
rings,— 
Then  soar    as    swift   as    smoke  from  a 
volcano  springs. 

XIV. 

Wile  baffled  wile,  and  strength  encoun- 
tered strength, 
Thus  long,  but  unprevailing:  — the 
event 
Of  that  portentous  fight  appeared  at 
length: 
Until  the   lamp   of  day  was   almost 

spent 
It  had  endured,  when  lifeless,  stark, 
and  rent, 
Hung  high  that  mighty   Serpent,  and 
at  last 
Fell   to    the   sea, — while    o'er    the 
continent, 
With  clang  of  wings  and  screams,  the 
Eagle  past, 
Heavily  borne  away  on  the  exhausted 
blast. 


xv. 

And  with  it  fled  the  tempest,  so  that 
ocean 
And    earth  and  sky  shone  through 
the  atmosphere  — 
Only    't  was    strange    to  see    the    red 
commotion 
Of    waves  like  mountains   o'er    the 

sinking  sphere 
Of   sunset    sweep,    and    their  fierce 
roar  to  hear 
Amid  the  calm :  —  down  the  steep  path 
I  wound 
To  the  sea-shore  —  the  evening  was 
most  clear 
And  beautiful;    and  there    the    sea  I 
found 
Calm  as    a   cradled  child  in  dreamless 
slumber  bound.   • 

XVI. 

There    was    a    Woman,    beautiful    as 
morning, 
Sitting  beneath  the   rocks  upon  the 
sand 
Of  the  waste  sea  —  fair  as   one  flower 
adorning 
An    icy   wilderness — each    delicate 

hand 
Lay  crossed   upon  her  bosom,    and 
the  band 
Of  her  dark   hair    had    fallen,  and  so 
she  sate, 
Looking    upon  the  waves;    on    the 
bare  strand 
Upon  the  sea-mark  a  small   boat  did 
wait, 
Fair  as  herself,  like  Love  by  Hope  left 
desolate. 


It    seemed    that    this    fair    Shape   had 
looked  upon 
That  unimaginable  fight,  and  now 
That   her  sweet   eyes  were    weary    of 
the  sun, 
As  brightly  it  illustrated  her  woe; 
For  in  the  tears,  which  silently  to 
flow 
Paused    not,     its   lustre    hung:      she, 
watching  aye 


128 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


The   foam-wreaths   which   the   faint 
tide  wove  below 
Upon    the    spangled    sands,    groaned 
heavily, 
And  after  every  groan  looked  up  over 
the  sea. 


And  when  she  saw  the  wounded  Ser- 
pent make 
His   path  between    the   waves,    her 
lips  grew  pale, 
Parted,  and  quivered :  the  tears  ceased 
to  break 
From  her  immovable  eyes;  no  voice 

of  wail        j> 
Escaped    her;    but    she    rose,    and, 
on  the  gale 
Loosening    h»r    star-bright    robe    and 
shadowy  hair, 
Poured  forth  her  voice;    the  caverns 
of  the  vale 
That    opened  to   the   ocean  caught  it 
there, 
And  filled  with  silver  sounds  the  over- 
flowing air. 


She  spake  in  language  whose  strange 
melody 
Might  not  belong  to  earth.     I  heard 
alone  — 
What  made  its  music   more   melodious 
be  — 
The  pity  "and  the  love  of  every  tone; 
But    to    the    Snake    those    accents 
sweet  were  known 
His  native  tongue   and  hers:   nor  did 
he  beat 
The  hoar  spray  idly  then,  but,  wind- 
ing on 
Through    the    green    shadows    of    the 
waves  that  meet 
Near  to  the  shore,  did  pause  beside  her 
snowy  feet. 


Then   on  the  sands  the  Woman    sate 
again, 
And   wept   and    clasped   her    hands, 
and,  all  between, 


Renewed  the  unintelligible  strain 
Of  her  melodious  voice  and  eloquent 

mien; 
And  she  unveiled   her  bosom,  and 
the  green 
And  glancing  shadows  of   the  sea  did 
play 
O'er    its    marmoreal    depth  —  one 
moment  seen: 
For  ere  the  next  the  Serpent  did  obey 
Her  voice,  and,  coiled  in  rest,  in  her 
embrace  it  lay. 


Then   she    arose,   and  smiled    on  me, 
with  eyes 
Serene    yet     sorrowing,     like    that 
planet  fair, 
While    yet    the    daylight    lingereth  in 
the  skies, 
Which   cleaves   with   arrowy  beams 

the  dark-red  air,  — 
And  said:    "  To  grieve  is  wise,  but 
the  despair 
Was    weak    and    vain  which  led  thee 
here  from  sleep : 
This   shalt   thou    know,   and    more, 
if  thou  dost  dare, 
With  me  and  with  this   Serpent,  o'er 
the  deep, 
A  voyage  divine  and  strange,  compan- 
ionship to  keep." 

XXII. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  wildest,  saddest 
tone, 
Yet    sweet,    of     some     loved    voice 
heard  long  ago. 
I  wept.      "Shall  this  fair  woman  all 
alone 
Over  the   sea   with   that    fierce   Ser- 
pent go? 
His  head  is  on  her  heart,  and  who 
can  know 
How   soon   he  may  devour   his  feeble 
prey  ?  ' ' 
Such   were   my  thoughts,   when   the 
tide  'gan  to  flow; 
And  that  strange  boat  like  the  moon's 
shade  did  sway 
Amid  reflected   stars   that   in   the  watci 
lay  •  — 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


129 


XXIII. 

A  boat  of  rare  device,  which  had  no 
sail 
But    its    own    curved  prow  of   thin 
moonstone, 
Wrought  like    a  web    of  texture    fine 
and  frail, 
To  catch  those  gentlest  winds  which 

are  not  known 
To  breathe,  but  by  the  steady  speed 
alone 
With  which  it  cleaves  the    sparkling 
sea;  and,  now 
We  are    embarked,   the    mountains 
hang  and  frown 
Over  the  starry  deep  that  gleams  be- 
low 
A  vast  and    dim  expanse,  as    o'er  the 
waves  we  go. 

XXIV. 

And,  as  we  sailed,  a  strange  and  awful 
tale 
That  Woman  told,  like  such  myste- 
rious dream 
As  makes  the  slumberer's  cheek  with 
wonder  pale  ! 
'T  was    midnight,    and    around,    a 

shoreless  stream, 
Wide  ocean  rolled,  when  that  ma- 
jestic theme 
Shrined  in  her  heart  found  utterance, 
and  she  bent 
Her  looks  on  mine;    those   eyes  a 
kindling  beam 
Of  love  divine  into  my  spirit  sent, 
And,  ere  her  lips  could  move,  made  the 
air  eloquent. 


"Speak  not  to  me,  but  hear!     Much 

shalt  thou  learn, 

Much  must  remain  unthought,  and 

more  untold, 

In  the  dark  Future's  ever-flowing  urn : 

Know  then  that  from  the  depth   of 

ages  old 
Two  Powers  o'er  mortal  things  do- 
minion hold, 
Ruling  the  world  with  a  divided  lot,  — 
Immortal,  all-pervading,  manifold, 


Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods  —  when   life 
and  thought 
Sprang  forth,  they  burst  the  womb  of 
inessential  Naught. 


"The  earliest  dweller  of    the  world, 
alone, 
Stood  on  the  verge  of  chaos.     Lo  ! 
afar 
O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors 
shone, 
Sprung  from  the  depth  of  its  tem- 
pestuous jar: 
A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning 
Star 
Mingling  their  beams  in  combat  —  As 
he  stood, 
All  thoughts  within  his  mind  waged 
mutual  war 
In  dreadful  sympathy  —  when  to  the 
flood 
That  fair  Star  fell,  he  turned  and  shed 
his  brother's  blood. 


"Thus  evil  triumphed,  and  the  Spirit 
of  evil, 
One  Power  of    many  shapes  which 
none  may  know, 
One  Shape  of  many  names;  the  Fiend 
did  revel 
In  victory,  reigning  o'er  a  world  of 

woe, 
For  the  new  race  of  man  went   to 
and  fro, 
Famished  and  homeless,  loathed  and 
loathing,  wild, 
And  hating  good  —  for  his  immortal 
foe 
He  changed  from  starry  shape,   beau- 
teous and  mild, 
To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast 
unreconciled. 


The  darkness  lingering  o'er  the  dawn 

of  things 
Was    Evil's    breath    and    life;    this 

made  him  strong 


[30 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


To    soar    aloft    with    overshadowing 
wings: 
And  the  great  Spirit  of  Good   did 

creep  among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every 
tongue 
Curst  and  blasphemed  him  as  he  past; 
for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil,  though  their 
names  were  hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  fane  where  many 
a  groan 
As  King,  and  Lord,  and  God  the   con- 
quering Fiend  did  own,  — 


"The  Fiend,  whose  name  was  Legion; 
Death,  Decay, 
Earthquake,  and  Blight,  and  Want, 
and  Madness  pale, 
Winged  and  wan  diseases,  an  array 
Numerous  as  leaves  that  strew  the 

autumnal  gale; 
Poison,  a  snake  in  flowers,  beneath 
the  veil 
Of  food  and  mirth  hiding  his  mortal 
head; 
And,  without  whom  all  these  might 
naught  avail, 
Fear,    Hatred,    Faith,    and   Tyranny, 
who  spread 
Those  subtle  nets  which  snare  the  living 
and  the  dead. 


"  His  spirit  is  their   power,  and  they 
his  slaves 
In  air,  and   light,  and   thought,  and 
language,  dwell; 
And  keep  their  state   from   palaces   to 
graves, 
In  ail  resorts  of  men  —  invisible, 
But  when,  in  ebon   mirror,    Night- 
mare fell 
To  tyrant  or  impostor  bids  them  rise, 
Black  winged  demon  forms  —  whom, 
from  the  hell, 
His  reign  and  dwelling  beneath  nether 

skies, 
He  loosens  to  their  dark  and  blasting 
ministries. 


"  In  the  world's  youth  his  empire  was 
as  firm 
As  its  foundations.     Soon  the  Spirit 
of  Good, 
Though  in  the  likeness  of  a  loathsome 
worm, 
Sprang  from  the  billows  of  the  form- 
less flood, 
Which  shrank  and  fled,  —  and  with 
that  Fiend  of  blood 
Renewed  the  doubtful  war.     Thrones 
then  first  shook, 
And  earth's  immense  and  trampled 
multitude 
In  hope  on  their  own  powers  began  to 
look, 
And  Fear,  the  demon  pale,  his  sanguine 
shrine  forsook. 


"Then  Greece  arose,  and  to  its  bards 
and  sages, 
In  dream,  the  golden-pinioned  Genii 
came, 
Even  where  they  slept  amid  the  night 
of  ages, 
Steeping  their  hearts  in  the  divinest 

flame 
Which  thy  breath  kindled,  Power  of 
holiest  name  ! 
And  oft  in  cycles  since,  when  darkness 
gave 
New  weapons  to  thy  foe,  their  sun- 
like fame 
Upon   the  combat  shone  —  a   light   to 
save, 
Like  Paradise   spread  forth   beyond  the 
shadowy  grave. 


"Such   is    this    conflict  —  when    man- 
kind  doth  strive 
With  its    oppressors   in    a   strife    of 
blood, 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  like  lightnings, 
are  alive, 
And  in  each  bosom  of  the  multitude 
Justice     and     truth     with      custom's 
hydra  brood 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


W 


Wage    silent    war;     when    priests   and 
kings  dissemble 
In  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  dis- 
quietude, 
When    round    pure    hearts    a    host    of 
hopes  assemble, 
The  Snake  and  Eagle  meet  —  the  world's 
foundations  tremble  ! 

xxxiv. 

"Thou  hast  beheld  that  fight  —  when 
to  thy  home 
Thou  dost  return,  steep  not  its  hearth 
in  tears; 
Though  thou  may'st  hear  that  earth  is  j 
now  become 
The  tyrant's  garbage,   which  to  his  j 

compeers, 
The  vile  reward  of  their  dishonored  j 
years, 
He    will    dividing    give. — The   victor 
Fiend, 
Omnipotent  of  yore,  now  quails,  and  J 
fears 
His  triumph   dearly  won,   which  soon 
will  lend 
An   impulse   swift  and   sure  to  his   ap- 
proaching  end. 

XXXV. 

"  List,  stranger,  list !    mine  is  a  human 
form, 
Like  that  thou  wearest  —  touch  me 
—  shrink  not  now  ! 
My  hand  thou  feel'st  is  not  a  ghost's, 
but  warm 
With  human  blood.  —  'T  was  many 

years  ago 
Since  first  my  thirsting  soul  aspired 
to  know 
The    secrets  of    this  wondrous  world,   1 
when  deep 
My  heart  was   pierced  with  sympa-   i 
thy  for  woe 
Which  could  not  be   mine  own  —  and   ! 
thought  did  keep, 
In    dream,  unnatural  watch    beside    an   | 
infant's  sleep. 


"Woe  could  not  be   mine  own,  since 
far  from  men 


I  dwelt,  a  free    and   happy    orphan 
child, 
By  the  seashore,  in   a  deep   mountain- 
glen; 
And  near  the  waves  and  through  the 

forests  wild 
I   roamed,    to    storm    and    darkness 
reconciled : 
For  I  was  calm  while   tempest    shook 
the  sky : 
But,  when  the  breathless  heavens  in 
beauty  smiled, 
I  wept  sweet  tears,   yet  too   tumult- 
ously 
For  peace,  and  clasped  my  hands   aloft 
in  ecstasy. 


"These  were  forebodings  of  my  fate  — 
Before 
A  woman's  heart  beat  in  my  virgin 
breast, 
It  had  been  nurtured  in  divinest  lore : 
A  dying    poet  gave  me  books,   and 

blest 
With  wild  but  holy  talk  the    sweet 
unrest 
In  which  I  watched  him   as    he    died 
away  — 
A  youth  with  hoary  hair  —  a  fleeting 
guest 
Of  our  lone   mountains:  and  this  lore 
did  sway 
My  spirit  like  a  storm,  contending  there 
alway. 


"  Thus  the  dark  tale  which  history  doth 
unfold 
I  knew,  but  not,  methinks,  as  others 
know, 
For  they  weep   not;    and  Wisdom  had 
unrolled 
The  clouds  which    hide  the  gulf  of 

mortal  woe,  — 
To  few  can  she  that  warning  vision 
show  — 
For    I   loved    all    things    with    intense 
devotion; 
So  that,  when  Hope's  deep  source  in 
fullest  flow, 


1 32 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Like  earthquake,  did  uplift  the    stag- 
nant ocean 
Of  human  thoughts,  mine  shook  beneath 
the  wide  emotion. 


"  When  first  the  living  blood  through 
all  these  veins 
Kindled    a   thought    in   sense,   great 
France  sprang  forth, 
And  seized,  as  if  to  break,  the  ponder- 
ous chains 
Which  bind  in   woe  the    nations  of 

the  earth. 
I  saw,  and  started  from  my  cottage- 
hearth; 
And  to  the  clouds  and  waves  in  tame- 
less gladness 
Shrieked,  till  they  caught  immeasur- 
able mirth, 
And  laughed  in  light  and  music;   soon 
sweet  madness 
Was  poured  upon  my  heart,  a  soft  and 
thrilling  sadness. 


"Deep    slumber     fell     on     me; — my 
dreams  were  fire, 
Soft  and  delightful  thoughts  did  rest 
and  hover 
Like    shadows    o'er    my    brain;     and 
strange  desire, 
The  tempest  of  a  passion  raging  over 
My    tranquil    soul,   its    depths    with 
light  did  cover,  — 
Which  past;  and  calm  and   darkness, 
sweeter  far, 
Came  —  then    I    loved;      but    not    a 
human  lover  ! 
For,    when    I    rose     from    sleep,    the 
Morning  Star 
Shone    through    the    woodbine-wreaths 
which  round  my  casement  were. 


"  'T  was  like  an  eye  which  seemed  to 
smile  on  me. 
I  watcht  till,  by  the  sun  made   pale, 
it  sank 
Under  the  billows  of  the  heaving  sea; 


But   from   its  beams   deep   love   my 

spirit  drank, 
And  to  my  brain  the  boundless  world 
now  shrank 
Into  one  thought — one   image — yes, 
forever ! 
Even  like  the  dayspring  poured  on 
vapors  dank, 
The  beams  of  that  one  Star  did  shoot 
and  quiver 
Through  my  benighted  mind  —  and  were 
extinguished  never. 


"The   day  past    thus:    at    night,    me- 

thought  in  dream 

A    shape    of    speechless    beauty  did 

appear; 

It  stood  like  light  on  a  careering  stream 

Of    golden  clouds   which  shook  the 

atmosphere;  — 
A  winged  youth,  his  radiant    brow 
did  wear 
The    Morning  Star :   a  wild  dissolving 
bliss 
Over    my  frame    he    breathed,    ap- 
proaching near, 
And  bent  his  eyes  of  kindling  tender- 
ness 
Near  mine,    and  on  my  lips  imprest  a 
lingering  kiss,  — 


"And    said:      'A    spirit    loves    thee, 
mortal  maiden: 
How  wilt   thou    prove   thy   worth?' 
Then  joy  and  sleep 
Together    fled,   my    soul    was    deeply 
laden, 
And  to  the  shore  I  went  to  muse  and 

weep; 
But,  as  I  moved,  over  my  heart  did 
creep 
A  joy  less  soft  but  more  profound  and 
strong 
Than  my  sweet  dream,  and  it  forbade 
to  keep 
The  path  of  the  sea-shore  :    that  Spirit's 
tongue 
Seemed    whispering    in    nay    heart,   and 
bore  my  steps  along. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


XLIV. 

i(  How,  to  that  vast  and  peopled  city 
led 
Which  was  a  field  of  holy  warfare 
then, 
I   walked    among  the    dying    and   the 
dead, 
And    shared    in  fearless  deeds  with 

evil  men, 
Calm    as    an   angel  in  the  dragon's 
den  — 
How  I  braved   death   for  liberty  and 
truth, 
And  spurned  at  peace  and  power  and 
fame  —  and,  when 
Those  hopes  had  lost  the  glory  of  their 
youth, 
How  sadly  I  returned  —  might  move  the 
hearer's  ruth. 


"Warm   tears   throng   fast!    the    tale 
may  not  be  said  — 
Know  then  that,  when  this  grief  had 
been  subdued, 
I  was    not  left,   like  others,  cold  and 
dead. 
The  Spirit  whom  I  loved  in  solitude 
Sustained    his    child:     the    tempest- 
shaken  wood, 
The    waves,    the    fountains,    and    the 
hush  of  night  — 
These  were  his    voice;    and  well  I 
understood 
His  smile   divine    when  the  calm  sea 
was  bright 
With    silent    stars,    and    Heaven    was 
breathless  with  delight. 


"  In    lonely  glens,  amid    the    roar    of 
rivers, 
When  the  dim  nights  were  moonless, 
have  I  known 
Joys    which    no    tongue  can  tell;    my 
pale  lip  quivers 
When  thought  revisits  them  : —  know 

thou  alone 
That,    after    many    wondrous    years 
were  flown, 
I  was  awakened  by  a  shriek  of  woe; 


And    over    me   a   mystic    robe    was 
thrown 
By  viewless   hands,  and  a  bright  Star 
did  glow 
Before  my  steps  —  the  Snake  then  met 
his  mortal  foe." 


"  Thou  fearest  not  then  the  Serpent  on 
thy  heart?  " 
"  Fear  it !  "  she  said  with  brief  and 
passionate  cry,  — 
And  spake  no  more:   that  silence  made 
me  start  — 
I  lookt,  and  we  were  sailing   pleas- 
antly, 
Swift  as  a  cloud  between  the  sea  and 
sky, 
Beneath  the  rising  moon  seen  far  away; 
Mountains  of  ice,  like  sapphire,  piled 
on  high, 
Hemming  the  horizon  round,  in  silence 
lay 
On  the  still  waters,  —  these  we  did  ap- 
proach alway. 

XLVIII. 

And  swift  and  swifter  grew  the  vessel's 
motion, 
So   that    a  dizzy  trance  fell  on   my 
brain  — 
Wild  music  woke  me :   we  had  passed 
the  ocean 
Which   girds  the  pole,  Nature's  re- 
motest reign -^ 
And    we    glode  fast  o'er  a  pellucid 
plain 
Of  waters,  azure  with  the  noontide  day. 
Ethereal  mountains  shone  around  — 
a  Fane 
Stood  in  the  midst,  girt  by  green  isles 
which  lay 
On  the  blue  sunny  deep,  resplendent  far 
away. 


It  was  a  Temple  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstasy  nor  dream 

Reared  in  the  cities  of  enchanted  land: 
'T  was  likest  heaven  ere   yet  day's 
purple  stream 


'34 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while 
the  gleam 
Of  the  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is    gathering — when   with    many    a 
golden  beam 
The    thronging    constellations   rush  in 
crowds, 
Paving  with  fire  the  sky  and  the  mar- 
moreal floods: 


Like    what   may  be  conceived  of  this 
vast  dome 
When  from  the  depths  which  thought 
can  seldom  pierce 
Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home, 
Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  Universe, 
Yet     nor    in     painting's    light,     or 
mightier  verse, 
Or    sculpture's  marble    language,    can 
invest 
That  shape  to  mortal  sense — such 
glooms  immerse 
That  incommunicable  sight,  and  rest 
Upon  the  laboring  brain  and  over-bur- 
dened breast. 


Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair, 

Whose    blosmy    forests    starred   the 

shadowy  deep, 

The   wingless    boat    paused    where   an 

ivory  stair 

Its  fretwork  in    the  crystal    sea  did 

steep 
Encircling   that    vast    Fane's    aerial 
heap : 
We  disembarked,  and  through  a  portal 
wide 
We    past — whose    roof,    of    moon- 
stone carved,  did  keep 
A  glimmering  o'er  the  forms  on  every 
side, 
Sculptures  like  life  and  thought,  immov- 
able, deep-eyed. 


We  came  to  a  vast  hall  whose  glorious 
roof 
Was  diamond,  which  had  drunk  the 
lightning's  sheen 


In    darkness,     and    now     poured     it 
through  the  woof 
Of  spell-inwoven  clouds  hung  there 

to  screen 
Its      blinding      splendor  —  through 
such  veil  was  seen 
That  work  of   subtlest  power,   divine 
and  rare; 
Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes 
between, 
And     horned     moons,     and     meteors 
strange  and  fair, 
On  night-black    columns  poised — one 
hollow  hemisphere  ! 


Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  quiver- 
ing light 
Distinct  —  between     whose     shafts 
wound  far  away 
The     long    and    labyrinthine    aisles, 
more  bright 
With  their  own   radiance   than  the 

Heaven  of  Day; 
And    on    the    jasper    walls    around 
there  lay 
Paintings,     the     poesy    of     mightiest 
thought, 
Which  did  the  Spirit's  history  dis- 
play; 
A  tale  of  passionate  change,  divinely 
taught, 
Which   in  their   winged   dance   uncon- 
scious Genii  wrought. 


Beneath  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire 
throne 
The  Great  who  had  departed  from 
mankind, 
A  mighty  Senate;  some,  whose  white 
hair  shone 
Like  mountain  snow,   mild,  beauti- 
ful, and  blind; 
Some,  female  forms,  whose  gestures 
beamed  with  mind; 
And  ardent  youths,  and  children  bright 
and  fair; 
And  some  had  lyres  whose  strings 
were  intertwined 
With  pale  and  clinging  flames,  which 
ever  there 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


•35 


Waked  faint  yet  thrilling  sounds    that 
pierced  the  crystal  air. 


One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a 
throne 
Reared  on  a  pyramid  like  sculptured 
flame, 
Distinct    with    circling    steps    which 
rested  on 
Their  own  deep  fire — Soon  as  the 

Woman  came 
Into    that    hall,    she    shrieked    the 
Spirit's  name, 
And  fell;   and  vanished    slowly   from 
the  sight. 
Darkness  arose  from  her  dissolving 
frame,  — 
Which,  gathering,  filled  that  dome  of 
woven  light, 
Blotting  its  sphered   stars  with    super- 
natural night. 


Then  first   two  glittering  lights   were 
seen  to  glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  floor, 
Small   serpent  eyes  trailing  from  side 
to  side, 
Like    meteors    on    a    river's    grassy 

shore, 
They    round     each     other     rolled, 
dilating  more 
And  more  —  then  rose,    commingling 
into  one, 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet  hang- 
ing o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow  which  was 
thrown 
Athwart  the  glowing  steps  and  the  crys- 
talline throne. 


The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone 
of  flame 
Was    cloven :     beneath    the    planet 
sate  a  Form 
Fairer     than     tongue     can     speak     or 
thought  may  frame, 
The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose- 
like and  warm 


Flowed  forth,  and  did  with  softest 
light  inform 
The   shadowy    dome,    the    sculptures, 
and  the  state 
Of  those  assembled    shapes  —  with 
clinging  charm 
Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and   mine. 
He  sate 
Majestic  yet  most  mild  —  calm  yet  com- 
passionate. 


Wonder    and  joy  a   passing  faintness 
threw 
Over  my  brow  —  a  hand  supported 
me, 
Whose  touch  was  magic  strength :   an 
eye  of  blue 
Looked  into  mine,  like  moonlight, 

soothingly; 
And  a  voice  said:  —  "  Thou  must  a 
listener  be 
This    day  —  two    mighty    Spirits    now 
return, 
Like  birds  of  calm,  from  the  world's 
raging  sea, 
They    pour    fresh    light    from  Hope's 
immortal  urn; 
A  tale  of  human  power  —  despair  not  — 
list  and  learn  !  " 


I  looked,  and  lo  !  one  stood  forth  elo- 
quently, 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  deep,  and 
the  clear  brow 
Which    shadowed   them  was  like   the 
morning  sky, 
The    cloudless    Heaven    of    Spring, 

when  in  their  flow 
Through    the    bright    air    the    soft 
winds  as  they  blow 
Wake   the  green  world:   his  gestures 
did  obey 
The   oracular  mind   that    made    his 
features  glow, 
And,  where  his  curved  lips  half-open 
lay, 
Passion's  divinest  stream  had  made  im- 
petuous way. 


i36 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


LX. 

Beneath  the  darkness  of  his  outspread 
hair 
He  stood  thus  beautiful:   but  there 
was  One 
Who  sate  beside  him  like  his  shadow 
there, 
And  held  his  hand  —  far  lovelier  — 

she  was  known 
To    be    thus    fair    by  the  few  lines 
alone 
Which  through  her  floating  locks  and 
gathered  cloak, 
Glances    of    soul-dissolving    glory, 
shone: — 
None  else  beheld   her   eyes  —  in  him 
they  woke 
Memories  which  found  a  tongue  as  thus 
he  silence  broke. 


CANTO   II. 


The  star-light  smile   of  children,  the 

sweet  looks 

Of    women,   the    fair    breast    from 

which  I  fed, 

The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  brooks, 

And  the  green  light  which,  shifting 

overhead, 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vines  around 
me  shed, 
The  shells  on  the  sea-sand,  and   the 
wild  flowers, 
The  lamp-light  through  the  rafters 
cheerly  spread, 
And   on    the    twining    flax  —  in    life's 
young  hours 
These  sights  and  sounds  did  nurse  my 
spirit's  folded  powers. 


ii. 


In  Argolis  beside  the  echoing  sea, 
Such    impulses    within    my    mortal 
frame 
Arose,  and  they  were  dear  to  memory, 
Like     tokens     of     the     dead: — but 

others  came 
Scon,    in  another  shape:  the   won- 
drous fame 


Of  the  past  world,  the  vital  words  and 
deeds 
Of    minds  whom  neither  time    nor 
change  can  tame, 
Traditions  dark   and  old  whence   evil 
creeds 
Start    forth,   and  whose    dim    shade    a 
stream  of  poison  feeds. 


I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  the  various 
story 
Of  human  life,  and  wept  unwilling 
tears. 
Feeble    historians    of    its    shame    and 
glory, 
False  disputants  on  all  its  hopes  and 

fears, 
Victims  who  worshipt   ruin,  chron- 
iclers 
Of  daily  scorn,  and  slaves  who  loathed 
their  state, 
Yet,  flattering  Power,  had  given  its 
ministers 
A  throne  of  judgment  in  the  grave  — 
't  was  fate 
That    among    such  as  these  my  youth 
should  seek  its  mate. 


The  land  in  which  I  lived  by  a    fell 
bane 
Was   withered    up.     Tyrants    dwelt 
side  by  side, 
And  stabled  in  our  homes  —  until  the 
chain 
Stifled    the    captive's    cry,    and     to 

abide 
That    blasting    curse    men    had     no 
shame  —  all  vied 
In  evil,  slave  and  despot;  fear  with  lust 
Strange   fellowship   through  mutual 
hate  had  tied, 
Like  two  dark  serpents  tangled  in  the 
dust. 
Which  on  the  paths  of  men  their  min- 
gling poison  thrust. 


Earth,  our  bright  home,  its  mountains 
and  its  waters, 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


137 


And  the  ethereal  shapes  which  are 
suspended 
Over  its  green  expanse,  and  those  fair 
daughters, 
The  clouds,  of  Sun  and  Ocean,  who 

have  blended 
The  colors  of  the  air  since  first  ex- 
tended 
It  cradled  the  young  world,  none  wan- 
dered forth 
To  see  or  feel :  a  darkness  had  de- 
scended 
On  every  heart :  the  light  which  shows 
its  worth 
Must  among  gentle  thoughts  and  fear- 
less take  its  birth. 


This  vital  world,  this  home  of  happy 
spirits, 
Was  as  a   dungeon    to    my  blasted 
kind. 
All  that  Despair  from  murdered  Hope 
inherits 
They  sought,  and,  in  their  helpless 

misery  blind, 
A  deeper  prison  and  heavier  chains 
did  find, 
And  stronger  tyrants: — a    dark    gulf 
before, 
The  realm  of  a  stern  Ruler,  yawned; 
behind, 
Terror    and   Time    conflicting    drove, 
and  bore 
On  their  tempestuous  flood  the  shriek- 
ing wretch  from  shore. 


Out  of  that  ocean's  wrecks  had  Guilt 
and  Woe 
Framed  a  dark    dwelling    for    their 
homeless  thought, 
And,  starting  at  the  ghosts  which  to 
and  fro 
Glide  o'er  its  dim  and  gloomy  strand, 

had  brought 
The  worship  thence  which  they  each 
other  taught. 
Well  might  men  loathe  their  life  !  well 
might  they  turn 
Even  to  the  ills  again  from  which 
they  sought 


Such  refuge  after  death !  well  might 
they  learn 
To  gaze  on  this  fair  world  with  hopeless 


unconcern 


For  they  all  pined  in  bondage;  body 
and  soul, 
Tyrant  and  slave,  victim    and    tor- 
turer, bent 
Before  one  Power,  to  which  supreme 
control 
Over  their  will  by  their  own  weak- 
ness lent 
Made  all  its  many  names  omnipotent ; 
All  symbols  of  things  evil,  all  divine; 
And  hymns  of    blood  or  mockery, 
which  rent 
The  air  from   all  its  fanes,  did  inter- 
twine 
Imposture's    impious   toils  round  each 
discordant  shrine. 


I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  vari- 
ous story, 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed 
the  tale; 
But  from  the  sneers  of  men  who  had 
grown  hoary 
In  shame  and  scorn,  from  groans  of 

crowds  made  pale 
By  famine,  from  a  mother's    deso- 
late wail 
O'er  her  polluted  child,  from  innocent 
blood 
Toured    on    the    earth,    and    brows 
anxious  and  pale 
With  the  heart's  warfare,  did  I  gather 
food 
To  feed  my  many  thoughts  —  a  tameless 
multitude  ! 


I    wandered    through    the    wrecks    of 

days  departed 
Far  by  the   desolated   shore,  when 

even 
O'er    the    still    sea    and  jagged    islets 

darted 


3§ 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


The  light  of  moonrise;  in  the  north- 
ern heaven, 
Among  the  clouds  near  the  horizon 
driven, 
The  mountains  lay  beneath  one  planet 
pale; 
Around  me  broken  tombs  and  col- 
umns riven 
Looked  vast  in  twilight,  and  the  sor- 
rowing gale 
Waked  in  those  ruins  gray  its  everlast- 
ing wail ! 


I  knew    not    who    had    framed    these 
wonders  then, 
Nor  had  I  heard  the  story  of  their 
deeds; 
But  dwellings   of    a  race  of  mightier 
men, 
And   monuments    of    less   ungentle 

creeds, 
Tell    their    own    tale   to    him    who 
wisely  heeds 
The  language   which  they  speak;    and 
now  to  me 
The    moonlight    making    pale    the 
blooming  weeds, 
The  bright  stars  shining  in  the  breath- 
less sea, 
Interpreted  those  scrolls  of  mortal  mys- 
tery. 


Such  man  has  been,  and  such  may  yet 
become  ! 
Ay,    wiser,    greater,    gentler,    even 
than  they 
Who  on  the  fragments  of  yon  shattered 
dome 
Have  stamped  the  sign  of  power  — ■ 

I  felt  the  sway 
Of  the  vast  stream  of  ages  bear  away 
My  floating   thoughts  —  my  heart  beat 
loud  and  fast  — 
Even  as   a   storm  let   loose  beneath 
the  ray 
Of    the    still    moon,  my  spirit   onward 
past 
Beneath    truth's  steady  beams  upon   its 
tumult  cast. 


It  shall  be   thus  no  more !  too  long, 
too  long, 
Sons   of    the    glorious    dead,    have 
ye  lain  bound 
In  darkness    and  in   ruin  !  —  Hope  is 
strong, 
Justice  and  Truth  their  winged  child 

have  found  !  — 
Awake !     arise !     until    the    mighty 
sound 
Of  your  career  shall  scatter  in  its  gust 
The   thrones   of  the   oppressor,  and 
the  ground 
Hide  the  last  altar's  unregarded  dust, 
Whose  Idol  has  so  long  betrayed  your 
impious  trust ! 

XIV. 

It  must  be  so  —  I  will  arise  and  waken 
The  multitude,  and,  like  a  sulphur- 
ous hill 
Which   on    a    sudden  from    its    snows 
has  shaken 
The    swoon  of  ages,  it  shall  burst, 

and  fill 
The    world    with    cleansing  fire;    it 
must,  it  will  — 
It  may  not  be   restrained  !  —  and  who 
shall  stand 
Amid  the  rocking  earthquake  stead- 
fast still, 
But  Laon?  on  high  Freedom's  desert 
land 
A  tower  whose  marble  walls  the  leagued 
storms  withstand  ! 


One  summer   night,  in   commune  with 
the  hope 
Thus   deeply  fed,  amid  those    ruins 
gray 
I    watched,    beneath    the   dark     sky's 
starry  cope; 
And  ever,  from  that  hour,  upon  me 

lay 
The  burden  of  this  hope,  and  night 
or  day, 
In    vision    or    in    dream,   clove  to  my 
breast : 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


'39 


Among  mankind,  or  when  gone  far 
away 
To    the    lone    shores    and    mountains, 
't  was  a  guest 
Which     followed     where    I     fled,    and 
watcht  when  I  did  rest. 


These    hopes    found    words    through 
which  my  spirit  sought 
To  weave  a  bondage  of  such  sym- 
pathy 
As  might  create  some  response  to  the 
thought 
Which  ruled  me  now  —  and  as  the 

vapors  lie 
Bright    in    the  outspread  morning's 
radiancy, 
So  were  these   thoughts   invested  with 
the  light 
Of  language;    and  all  bosoms  made 
reply 
On  which  its   lustre  streamed,  when- 
e'er it  might 
Through  darkness  wide  and  deep  those 
tranced  spirits  smite. 


Yes,  many  an  eye  with  dizzy  tears  was 
dim, 
And  oft  I  thought  to  clasp   my  own 
heart's  brother, 
When  I  could  feel  the  listener's  senses 
swim, 
And    hear  his  breath  its  own  swift 

gaspings  smother 
Even  as  my  words  evoked  them  — 
and  another, 
And  yet  another,  I  did  fondly  deem, 
Felt  that  we  all  were  sons  of  one 
great  mother; 
And  the  cold   truth  such  sad  reverse 
did  seem 
As  to  awake  in  grief  from  some  delight- 
ful dream. 


Yes,  oft  beside  the  ruined  labyrinth 
Which  skirts  the  hoary  caves  of  the 
green  deep 


Did  Laon  and  his  friend,  on  one  graj 

plinth, 
Round    whose   worn  base    the  wild 

waves  hiss  and  leap, 
Resting    at    eve,     a    lofty    converse 
keep: 
And  that  this  friend  was  false  may  now 
be  said 
Calmly  —  that    he,   like  other  men, 
could  weep 
Tears  which  are  lies,  and  could  betray 
and  spread 
Snares  for  that  guileless  heart  which  for 
his  own  had  bled. 

XIX. 

Then,  had  no  great  aim  recompensed 
my  sorrow, 
I    must    have    sought    dark    respite 
from  its  stress 
In  dreamless  rest,  in  sleep  that  sees  no 
morrow  — 
For  to  tread  life's  dismaying  wilder- 
ness 
Without    one    smile    to    cheer,    one 
voice  to  bless, 
Amid  the  snares  and  scoffs  of  human- 
kind, 
Is  hard  —  but  I  betrayed  it  not,  nor 
less, 
With  love  that  scorned  return,  sought 
to  unbind 
The  interwoven  clouds  which  make  its 
wisdom  blind. 

XX. 

With    deathless    minds,    which    leave 
where  they  have  past 
A  path  of  light,  my  soul  communion 
knew; 
Till  from  that  glorious   intercourse,  at 
last, 
As  from  a  mine  of    magic  store,  I 

drew 
Words     which    were     weapons;  — 
round  my  heart  there  grew 
The  adamantine  armor  of  their  power, 
And  from  my  fancy  wings  of  golden 
hue 
Sprang    forth  —  yet    not    alone     from 
wisdom's  tower, 


140 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


A  minister  of  truth,  these  plumes  young 
Laon  bore. 


An    orphan    with    my    parents    lived, 
whose  eyes 
Were    lodestars     of    delight    which 
drew  me  home 
When  I  might  wander  forth;    nor  did 
I  prize 
Aught        human       thing       beneath 

heaven's  mighty  dome 
Beyond    this    child :    so,    when    sad 
hours  were  come, 
And  baffled  hope  like  ice  still  clung  to 
me, 
Since  kin   were    cold,    and    friends 
had  now  become 
Heartless  and  false,  I  turned  from  all 
to  be, 
Cythna,   the   only  source   of   tears  and 
smiles  to  thee. 


What  wert  thou  then?     A  child  most 
infantine, 
Yet  wandering  far  beyond  that  in- 
nocent age 
In    all  but   its  sweet  looks  and  mien 
divine : 
Even    then,     methought,   with    the 

world's  tyrant  rage 
A  patient  warfare  thy  young  heart 
did  wage, 
When  those  soft  eyes  of  scarcely  con- 
scious thought 
Some    tale    or    thine    own     fancies 
would  engage 
To    overflow   with   tears,   or   converse 

fraught 
With  passion  o'er  their  depths  its  fleet- 
ing light  had  wrought. 


She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of 

brightness, 
A     power     that     from     its    objects 

scarcely  drew 
One    impulse    of    her   being — in   her 

lightness 


Most    like    some    radiant    cloud    of 

morning  dew 
Which    wanders  through   the   waste 
air's  pathless  blue 
To  nourish  some  far  desert;  she  did 
seem, 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she 
grew, 
Like    the    bright    shade   of   some  im- 
mortal dream 
Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the 
wave  of  life's  dark  stream. 


As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child 

to  me, 

A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more 

fair, 

Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy 

All  those  steep  paths  which  languor 

and  despair 
Of  human  things  had  made  so  dark 
and  bare, 
But    which    I    trod    alone — nor,    till 
bereft 
Of  friends,  and  overcome  by  lonely 
care, 
Knew  I  what  solace  for  that  loss  was 
left, 
Though  by  a  bitter  wound  my  trusting 
heart  was  cleft. 


Once  she  was  dear,  now  she  was  all  I 
had 
To  love  in  human  life  —  this  play- 
mate sweet, 
This   child   of   twelve    years    old  —  so 
she  was  made 
My  sole  associate,   and  her  willing 

feet 
Wandered  with  mine  where    earth 
and  ocean  meet, 
Beyond    the    aerial    mountains    whose 
vast  cells 
The  unreposing  billows  ever  beat, 
Through    forests    wide    and   old,   and 
lawny  dells 
Where   boughs   of   incense   droop   over 
the  emerald  wells. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


141 


And  warm  and  light  I  felt  her  clasping 
hand 
When  twined  in  mine  :  she  followed 
where  I  went, 
Through    the    lone    paths   of  our  im- 
mortal land. 
It  had  no  waste  but  some  memorial 

lent 
Which  strung  me  to  my  toil  —  some 
monument 
Vital  with   mind :  then   Cythna  by  my 
side, 
Until   the  bright  and  beaming  day 
were  spent, 
Would  rest,  with  looks  entreating  to 
abide, 
Too  earnest  and  too  sweet  ever  to  be 
denied. 

XXVII. 

And    soon    I   could   not  have  refused 
her  — Thus, 
Forever,    day   and    night,    we    two 
were  ne'er 
Parted,  but  when  brief  sleep  divided 
us : 
And,  when  the  pauses  of  the  lulling 

air 
Of  noon  beside  the  sea  had  made  a 
lair 
For  her  soothed  senses,   in   my  arms 
she  slept, 
And  I  kept  watch  over  her  slumbers 
there, 
While,  as  the  shifting  visions  o'er  her 
swept, 
Amid    her    innocent  rest  by  turns  she 
smiled  and  wept. 

XXVIII. 

And   in  the    murmur    of    her    dreams 

was  heard 
Sometimes    the    name    of    Laon :  — 

suddenly 
She  would  arise,  and,  like  the  secret 

bird 
Whom  sunset  wakens,  fill  the  shore 

and  sky 
With    her    sweet    accents — a    wild 

melody ! 


Hymns  which  my  soul  had  woven  to 
Freedom,  strong 
The  source  of  passion,  whence  they 
rose,  to  be; 
Triumphant     strains     which,     like    a 
spirit's  tongue, 
To  the  enchanted  waves  that  child  of 
glory  sung  — 


Her    white   arms    lifted    through    the 
shadowy  stream 
Of  her    loose   hair  —  O  excellently 
great 
Seemed  to  me  then  my  purpose,  the 
vast  theme 
Of  those  impassioned   songs,  when 

Cythna  sate 
Amid  the  calm  which  rapture  doth 
create 
After  its  tumult,  her  heart  vibrating, 
Her  spirit  o'er  the  ocean's  floating 
state 
From  her  deep  eyes  far  wandering,  on 
the  wing 
Of  visions  that  were  mine,  beyond  its 
utmost  spring. 


For,  before  Cythna  loved  it,  had  my 
song 
Peopled  with  thoughts   the  bound- 
less universe, 
A   mighty    congregation,   which   were 
strong, 
Where'er  they    trod    the   darkness, 

to  disperse 
The  cloud  of  that  unutterable  curse 
Which     clings     upon     mankind:  —  all 
things  became 
Slaves  to  my  holy  and  heroic  verse, 
Earth,   sea  and  sky,  the  planets,   life 
and  fame, 
And   fate,  or   whate'er  else   binds  the 
world's  wondrous  frame. 

XXXI. 

And  this  beloved  child   thus  felt  the 
sway 
Of  my  conceptions,  gathering  like  a 
cloud 


142 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


The  very  wind  on  which  it  rolls  away : 
Hers  too  were  all  my  thoughts  ere 

yet,  endowed 
With    music    and    with    light,    their 
fountains  flowed 
In    poesy;     and    her   still  and  earnest 
face, 
Pallid  with  feelings  which  intensely 
glowed 
Within,     was    turned    on    mine    with 
speechless  grace, 
Watching    the    hopes  which    there    her 
heart  had  learned  to  trace. 


In    me    communion    with    this    purest 
being 
Kindled  intenser  zeal,  and  made  me 
wise 
In  knowledge,  which  in  hers  mine  own 
mind  seeing 
Left    in  the  human  world  few  mys- 
teries. 
How  without  fear  of  evil  or  disguise 
Was    Cythna  !  —  what    a  spirit  strong 
and  mild, 
Which  death  or  pain  or  peril  could 
despise, 
Yet  melt   in  tenderness !    what  genius 
wild 
Yet    mighty    was    enclosed    within    one 
simple  child ! 


New  lore  was  this — old  age,  with  its 
gray  hair, 
And  wrinkled  legends  of   unworthy 
things, 
And    icy    sneers,  is  naught :   it  cannot 
dare 
To  burst  the  chains  which  life  forever 

flings 
On     the     entangled    soul's     aspiring 
wings, 
So  is  it  cold  and  cruel,  and  is  made 
The  careless  slave  of  that  dark  power 
which  brings 
Evil,   like    blight,   on    man,   who,   still 
betrayed, 
Laughs  o'er  the  grave  in  which  his  living 
hopes  are  laid. 


XXXIV. 

Nor  are  the   strong  and  the  severe  to 
keep 
The    empire    of    the    world:      thus 
Cythna  taught 
Even    in    the  visions   of    her  eloquent 
sleep, 
Unconscious    of   the  power  through 

which  she  wrought 
The  woof  of  such  intelligible  thought, 
As   from    the   tranquil    strength  which 
cradled  lay 
In  her  smile-peopled  rest,  my  spirit 
sought 
Why    the    deceiver  and   the  slave  has 
sway 
O'er   heralds  so  divine  of  truth's  arising 
day. 

XXXV. 

Within    that    fairest    form    the    female 
mind, 
Untainted  by  the  poison-clouds  which 
rest 
On  the  dark  world,  a  sacred  home  did 
find: 
But   else   from  the  wide  earth's  ma- 
ternal breast 
Victorious    Evil,   which  had  dispos- 
sest 
All    native      power,     had     those    fair 
children  torn, 
And  made  them  slaves   to  soothe  his 
vile  unrest, 
And  minister  to  lust  its  joys  forlorn, 
Till  they  had    learned    to   breathe   the 
atmosphere  of  scorn. 

XXXVI. 

This  misery  was  but  coldly  felt  till  she 
Became    my    only    friend,   who    had 
endued 
My  purpose  with  a  wider  sympathy; 
Thus  Cythna  mourned  with  me   the 

servitude 
In    which    the    half     of    humankind 
were  mewed, 
Victims  of   lust  and  hate,  the   slaves  of 
slaves, 
She  mourned  that   grace   and  power 
were  thrown  as  food 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


M3 


To  the  hyena  lust,  who  among  graves 
Over    his    loathed    meal,    laughing    in 
agony,  raves. 

XXXVII. 

And    I,    still  gazing  on  that  glorious 
child, 
Even  as  these  thoughts  flushed  o'er 
her  :  —  "  Cythna  sweet, 
Well  with  the  world  art  thou  unrec- 
onciled; 
Never  will  peace  and  human  nature 

meet 
Till  free  and  equal  man  and  woman 
greet 
Domestic  peace;    and,  ere  this  power 
can  make 
In  human  hearts  its  calm  and  holy 
seat, 
This  slavery  must  be  broken  "  —  as  I 
spake, 
From  Cythna's  eyes  a  light  of  exultation 
brake. 


She  replied  earnestly:  —  "It  shall    be 
mine, 
This    task,  —  mine,    Laon  !  —  thou 
hast  much  to  gain; 
Nor  wilt  thou  at  poor  Cythna's  pride 
repine, 
If   she  should  lead  a  happy  female 

train 
To    meet    thee    over   the    rejoicing 
plain, 
When  myriads  at  thy  call  shall  throng 
around 
The     Golden    City."  —  Then    the 
child  did  strain 
My  arm  upon  her  tremulous  heart,  and 
wound 
Her  own  about  my  neck,  till  some  reply 
she  found. 


I  smiled,  and   spake  not. — "Where- 
fore dost  thou  smile 
At    what    I    say?     Laon,   I   am   not 
weak, 

And,  though   my  cheek  might  become 
pale  the  while, 


With   thee,    if  thou  desirest,  will  I 

seek, 
Through  their  array  of  banded  slaves, 
to  wreak 
Ruin  upon  the  tyrants.     I  had  thought 
It   was    more  hard    to  turn  my  un- 
practised cheek 
To  scorn  and  shame,  and  this  beloved 
spot 
And  thee,  O  dearest  friend,  to  leave  and 
murmur  not. 


"Whence  came  I  what  I  am?     Thou, 
Laon,  knowest 
How  a  young  child  should  thus  un- 
daunted be; 
Methinks    it    is  a   power    which    thou 
bestowest, 
Through     which    I    seek,    by  most 

resembling  thee, 
So  to  become  most  good  and  great 
and  free; 
Yet,   far  beyond    this  Ocean's  utmost 
roar, 
In  towers  and  huts  are  many  like  to 
me, 
Who,    could    they   see   thine  eyes,   or 
feel  such  lore 
As  I  have  learnt  from   them,   like  me 
would  fear  no  more. 


"Think'st  thou  that  I  shall  speak  un- 
skilfully, 
And  none  will  heed  me?     I  remem- 
ber now 
How  once  a  slave  in  tortures  doomed 
to  die 
Was  saved  because  in  accents  sweet 

and  low 
He  sung  a  song  his  judge  loved  long 

As  he  was   led   to   death.  —  All   shall 
relent 
WJjo  hear  me  —  tears,  as  mine  have 
flowed,  shall  flow, 
Hearts  beat  as  mine   now  beats,  with 
such  intent 
As  renovates  the  world;  a  will  omnipo- 
tent! 


44 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


"  Yes,    I    will    tread    Pride's    golden 

palaces, 

Through  Penury's  roofless  huts  and 

squalid  cells 

Will  I  descend,  where'er  in  abjectness 

Woman  with   some   vile    slave    her 

tyrant  dwells, 
There  with  the  music  of  thine  own 
sweet  spells 
Will  disenchant  the  captives,  and  will 
pour 
For  the  despairing,  from  the  crystal 
wells 
Of  thy  deep    spirit,    reason's    mighty 
lore, 
And  power  shall  then  abound,  and  hope 
arise  once  more. 


"Can  man  be    free    if    woman    be    a 
slave? 
Chain   one  who  lives,  and  breathes 
this  boundless  air, 
To  the  corruption  of  a  closed  grave  ! 
Can  they  whose    mates    are    beasts 

condemned  to  bear 
Scorn  heavier  far  than  toil  or  anguish 
dare 
To  trample  their  oppressors?  In  their 
home, 
Among  their  babes,  thou  knowest  a 
curse  would  wear 
The    shape  of  woman  —  hoary  Crime 

would  come 
Behind,  and   Fraud  rebuild  Religion's 
tottering  dome. 


"  I  am  a  child  : —  I  would  not  yet  de- 
part. 
When  I  go  forth  alone,  bearing  the 
lamp 
Aloft  which  thou   hast   kindled   in   my 
heart, 
Millions  of  slaves  from  many  a  dun- 
geon damp 
Shall  leap  in  joy,  as  the   benumbing 
cramp 
Of   ages    leaves    their    limbs  —  no    ill 
may  harm 


Thy  Cythna  ever  —  truth  its  radiant 
stamp 
Has  fixt,  as  an  invulnerable  charm, 
Upon  her  children's  brow,  dark  False- 
hood to  disarm. 


"  Wait  yet  awhile   for  the  appointed 
day  — 
Thou  wilt  depart,  and   I  with  tears 
shall  stand 
Watching  thy  dim  sail  skirt  the  ocean 
gray ; 
Amid  the  dwellers  of  this  lonely  land 
I  shall  remain  alone  —  and  thy  com- 
mand 
Shall  then  dissolve  the  world's  unquiet 
trance, 
And,    multitudinous    as    the    desert 
sand 
Borne  on  the  storm,  its  millions  shall 
advance, 
Thronging  round  thee,  the  light  of  their 
deliverance. 


"Then,  like  the  forests  of  some  path- 
less mountain 
Which    from     remotest     glens     two 
warring  winds 
Involve  in  fire  which  not  the  loosened 
fountain 
Of    broadest   floods   might    quench, 

shall  all  the  kinds 
Of  evil  catch  from  our  uniting  minds 
The  spark  which  must  consume  them; 
—  Cythna  then 
Will   have    cast    off    the    impotence 
that  binds 
Her  childhood  now,  and   through   the 
paths  of  men 
Will   pass,    as    the    charmed    bird    that 
haunts  the  serpent's  den. 

XLVII. 

"  We  part !  —  O  Laon,    I   must   dare, 
nor  tremble, 
To  meet   those   looks   no    more  !  — - 
Oh  heavy  stroke  ! 

Sweet  brother  of  my  soul  !  can   I   dis- 
semble 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


M5 


The  agony  of  this  thought?  "  —  As 

thus  she  spoke, 
The  gathered  sobs  her  quivering  ac- 
cents broke, 
And  in  my  arms  she  hid  her  beating 
breast. 
I  remained  still  for   tears  —  sudden 
she  woke 
As  one  awakes  from  sleep,  and  wildly 
prest 
My  bosom,  her  whole  frame  impetuously 
possest. 


"We   part   to   meet   again  —  but   yon 
blue  waste, 
Yon  desert  wide  and  deep,  holds  no 
recess 
Within  whose  happy  silence,  thus  em- 
braced, 
We    might    survive    all    ills    in  one 

caress : 
Nor    doth  the   grave  —  I   fear   't  is 
passionless  — 
Nor    yon  cold  vacant   Heaven: — we 
meet  again 
Within    the    minds    of  men,   whose 
lips  shall  bless 
Our  memory,  and  whose  hopes  its  light 

retain, 
When  these  dissevered  bones  are  trod- 
den in  the  plain." 


I  could    not    speak,    though    she    had 
ceased,  for  now 
The  fountains  of  her   feeling,  swift 
and  deep, 
Seemed  to  suspend  the  tumult  of  their   I 
How ; 
So  we  arose,   and  by  the  starlight 

steep 
Went  homeward  —  neither    did  we   \ 
speak  nor  weep, 
But,  pale,  were  calm  with  passion —   | 
Thus  subdued, 
Like  evening  shades  that  o'er  the  ! 
mountains  creep, 
We  moved  towards  our  home;  where, 
in  this  mood, 
Each  from  the  other  sought   refuge  in  j 
solitude. 


CANTO   III. 

I. 

What  thoughts  had  sway  o'er  Cythna's 
lonely  slumber 
That  night  I  know  not;  but  my  own 
did  seem 
As  if    they  might  ten-thousand  years 
outnumber 
Of  waking    life,    the    visions    of    a 

dream 
Which    hid    in    one    dim    gulf    the 
troubled  stream 
Of  mind;  a  boundless  chaos  wild  and 
vast, 
Whose  limits  yet  were   never  mem- 
ory's theme : 
And  I  lay  struggling  as  its  whirlwinds 
past, 
Sometimes  for  rapture  sick,  sometimes 
for  pain  aghast. 


Two    hours,  whose   mighty   circle   did 
embrace 
More   time   than   might  make  gray 
the  infant  world, 
Rolled  thus,  a  weary  and  tumultuous 
space : 
When  the  third  came,  like  mist  on 

breezes  curled, 
From  my  dim  sleep  a  shadow  was 
unfurled : 
Methought,  upon    the  threshold  of    a 
cave 
I  sate  with  Cythna  ;   drooping  bry- 
ony, pearled 
With    dew    from  the  wild  streamlet's 
shattered  wave, 
Hung,  where  we  sate  to  taste  the  joys 
which  Nature  gave. 


We  lived  a  day  as  we  were  wont  to 
live, 
But  Nature  had  a  robe  of  glory  on, 
And  the  bright    air  o'er    every  shape 
did  weave 
Intenser  hues,  so  that  the  herbless 
stone, 


146 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


The     leafless     bough      among     the 

Though,  still   deluded,  strove   the   tor- 

leaves alone, 

tured  sense 

Had  being  clearer  than  its  own  could 

To  its  dire  wanderings  to  adapt  the 

be,  — 

sound 

And  Cythna's  pure  and  radiant  self 

Which    in    the    light    of    morn    was 

was  shown, 

poured  around 

In  this  strange  vision,  so  divine  to  me 

Our   dwelling  —  breathless,  pale,    and 

That,  if  I  loved  before,  now  love  was 

unaware, 

agony. 

I  rose,  and  all  the  cottage   crowded 

IV. 

found 

With     armed    men,    whose    glittering 

Morn  fled,  noon  came,   evening,   then 

swords  were  bare, 

night,  descended, 

And  whose  degraded  limbs  the  tyrant's 

And  we  prolonged  calm  talk  beneath 

garb  did  wear. 

the  sphere 

Of  the  calm    moon  —  when    suddenly 

VII. 

was  blended 

With  our   repose  a    nameless  sense 

And,  ere  with  rapid  lips  and  gathered 

of  fear; 

brow 

And  from  the  cave  behind  I  seemed 

I  could   demand  the  cause,  a  feeble 

to  hear 

shriek  — 

Sounds    gathering    upwards  —  accents 

It  was  a  feeble  shriek,  faint,  far,  and 

incomplete 

low  — 

And    stifled     shrieks,  —  and    now, 

Arrested  me  —  my  mien  grew  calm 

more  near  and  near, 

and  meek, 

A  tumult  and  a  rush  of  thronging  feet 

And,  grasping  a  small  knife,  I  went 
to  seek 

The  cavern's  secret  depths  beneath  the 

earth  did  beat. 

That  voice  among  the  crowd  —  't  was 

v. 

Cythna's  cry  ! 

Beneath  most  calm  resolve  did  agony 

The  scene    was    changed,   and    away, 

wreak 

away,  away  ! 

Its  whirlwind  rage  : —  so  I  past  quietly, 

Through    the  air  and  over    the  sea 

Till  I  beheld  where  bound  that  dearest 

we  sped, 

child  did  lie. 

And  Cythna  in  my  sheltering    bosom 

lay, 

VIII. 

And  the  winds  bore  me  —  through 

the  darkness  spread 

I  started  to  behold  her,  for  delight 

Around,     the     gaping     earth    then 

And  exultation,  and  a  joyance  free, 

vomited 

Solemn,   serene,   and   lofty,   rilled    the 

Legions  of    foul    and    ghastly  shapes, 

light 

which  hung 

Of   the  calm  smile  with   which  she- 

Upon  my    flight;    and    ever    as    we 

looked  on  me : 

fled, 

So    that     I    feared    some     brainless 

They  plucked  at  Cythna  —  soon  to  me 

ecstasy, 

then  clung 

Wrought   from    that    bitter    woe,    had 

A  sense  of  actual  things  those  monstrous 

wildered  her  — 

dreams  among. 

"  Farewell  !    farewell !"  she  said,  as 

I  drew  nigh. 

VI. 

"At    first  my  peace    was    marred    by 

And  I  lay  struggling  in  the  impotence 

this  strange  stir, 

Of    sleep,    while    outward    life    had 

Now   I   am   calm  as  truth  —  its   chosen 

burst  its  bound, 

minister. 

THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


M7 


"  Look  not  so,  Laon  —  say  farewell  in 
hope, 
These  bloody  men  are  but  the  slaves 
who  bear 
Their  mistress  to  her  task  — it  was  my 
scope 
The    slavery    where    they    drag    me   I 

now  to  share, 
And  among  captives  willing  chains  \ 
to  wear 
Awhile  —  the  rest  thou  knowest — Re- 
turn, dear  friend  ! 
Let  our    first  triumph    trample    the 
despair 
Which    would    ensnare    us    now,    for, 
in  the  end, 
In  victory  or  in    death  our  hopes    and 
fears  must  blend." 


These  words  had  fallen  on  my  unheed 
ing  ear, 
Whilst  I  had  watched  the  motions 
of  the  crew 
With     seeming-careless    glance;      not 
many  were 
Around  her,  for  their  comrades   just 

withdrew 
To  guard  some  other  victim  —  so  I 
drew 
My  knife,  and  with  one  impulse,  sud- 
denly, 
All  unaware  three  of  their  number 
slew, 
And    grasped  a  fourth  by  the  throat, 
and  with  loud  cry 
My    countrymen  invoked    to    death    or 
liberty  ! 


XI. 


What  followed  then  I  know  not  —  for 
a  stroke 
On  my  raised  arm  and  naked  head 
came  down, 
Filling    my  eyes  with  blood. — When 
I  awoke, 
I   felt  that  they  had    bound    me   in 

my  swoon, 
And  up  a  rock  which  overhangs  the 
town, 


By  the  steep  path,  were  bearing  me: 
below 
The  plain  was  filled  with  slaughter, 
—  overthrown 
The  vineyards  and    the  harvests,   and 
the  glow 
Of  blazing  roofs  shone  far  o'er  the  white 
ocean's  flow. 


Upon     that     rock     a    mighty    column 
stood 
Whose  capital  seemed  sculptured  in 
the  sky, 
Which  to  the  wanderers  o'er  the  soli- 
tude 
Of  distant  seas,  from  ages  long  gone 

by, 

Had    made    a    landmark;     o'er    its 
heights  to  fly 
Scarcely  the  cloud,  the  vulture,  or  the 
blast, 
Has  power  —  and,  when  the  shades 
of  evening  lie 
On  earth  and  ocean,  its  carved  sum- 
mits cast 
The    sunken    daylight  far  through    the 
aerial  waste. 


They  bore  me  to  a  cavern  in  the  hill 
Beneath  that  column,  and  unbound 
me  there : 
And  one  did  strip  me  stark;    and  one 
did  fill 
A  vessel  from  the  putrid  pool;   one 

bare 
A  lighted  torch,  and  four  with  friend- 
less care 
Guided     my   steps    the     cavern-paths 
along. 
Then  up  a  steep  and  dark  and  nar- 
row stair 
We    wound,    until    the    torch's    fiery 
tongue 
Amid    the   gushing    day    beamless    and 
pallid  hung. 


They  raised  me  to  the  platform  of    the 
pile, 


1 43 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


That     column's    dizzy    height:     the 
grate  of  brass, 
Through  which  they  thrust  me,  open 
stood  the  while, 
As  to  its  ponderous  and  suspended 

mass, 
With  chains  which  eat  into  the  flesh, 
alas  ! 
With    brazen    links,   my    naked    limbs 
they  bound : 
The  grate,  as  they  departed  to  re- 
pass, 
With  horrid  clangor  fell,  and  the  far 
sound 
Of  their  retiring  steps  in  the  dense  gloom 
was  drowned. 


The    noon    was    calm    and    bright:  — 
around  that  column 
The  overhanging    sky    and    circling 
sea 
Spread    forth,  in    silentness    profound 
and  solemn, 
The  darkness  of  brief  frenzy  cast  on 

me, 
So  that  I  knew  not  my  own  misery: 
The  islands  and  the  mountains  in  the 
day 
Like    clouds    reposed    afar;    and    I 
could  see 
The    town    among    the    woods    below 
that  lay, 
And  the  dark   rocks  which  bound  the 
bright  and  glassy  bay. 

XVI. 

It  was  so  calm  that  scarce  the  feathery 
weed 
Sown  by  some  eagle  on  the  topmost 
stone 
Swayed  in   the    air: — so    bright    that 
noon  did  breed 
No  shadow  in  the  sky  beside  mine 

own  — 
Mine,  and  the  shadow  of    my  chain 
alone. 
Below,  the  smoke  of  roofs  involved  in 
flame 
Rested  like  night,  all  else  was  clearly 
shown 


In  that    broad    glare, — yet    sound    to 
me  none  came, 
But  of  the  living  blood  that  ran  within 
my  frame. 


The  peace  of  madness  fled,  and  ah,  too 

soon  ! 

A  ship  was  lying  on  the  sunny  main, 

Its  sails  were  flagging  in  the  breathless 

noon  — - 

Its  shadow  lay  beyond  —  That  sight 

again 
Waked    with    its     presence     in    my 
tranced  brain 
The  stings  of  a  known  sorrow,   keen 
and  cold : 
I  knew  that  ship  bore   Cythna  o'er 
the  plain 
Of    waters,    to    her    blighting    slavery 
sold, 
And  watched  it  with   such  thoughts  as 
must  remain  untold. 


I  watcht,  until  the   shades  of  evening 
wrapt 
Earth  like  an  exhalation  —  then  the 
bark 
Moved,  for  that   calm  was  by  the  sun- 
set snapt. 
It    moved  a  speck  upon  the    ocean 

dark : 
Soon  the   wan  stars  came  forth,  and 
I  could  mark 
Its  path  no  more  !    I  sought  to  close 
mine  eyes, 
But,   like    the  balls,   their  lids  were 
stiff  and  stark; 
I    would    have    risen,  but   ere    that    I 
could  rise 
My  parched  skin  was  split  with  piercing 
agonies. 


I  gnawed  my  brazen  chain,  and  Lought 
to  sever 
Its  adamantine    links,   that   I   might 
die; 
O  Liberty  !   forgive  the  base  endeavor, 
Forgive  me  if,  reserved  for  victory, 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


149 


The    Champion    of    thy    faith     e'er 
sought  to  fly ! 
That  starry  night  with  its  clear  silence 
sent 
Tameless  resolve   which  laughed  at 
misery 
Into    my  soul  —  linked    remembrance 
lent 
To  that  such  power,  to  me  such  a  severe 
content. 


To  breathe,   to  be,  to  hope,  or  to  de- 
spair 
And    die,    I    questioned    not;     nor, 
though  the  sun, 
Its  shafts   of    agony  kindling  through 
the  air, 
Moved  over  me,  nor  though,  in  even- 
ing dun, 
Or     when     the     stars    their    visible 
courses  run, 
Or  morning,    the    wide    universe    was 
spread 
In   dreary  calmness  round  me,  did  I 
shun 
Its  presence,  nor  seek  refuge  with  the 
dead 
From    one    faint    hope  whose   flower  a 
dropping  poison  shed. 


Two  days  thus  past  —  I  neither  raved 
nor  died  — 
Thirst   raged  within  me,  like  a  scor- 
pion's nest 
Built  in  mine  entrails;  I  had    spurned 
aside 
The  water-vessel   while  despair  pos- 

sest 
My  thoughts,  and  now   no  drop   re- 
mained !     The  uprest 
Of  the  third  sun  brought  hunger  —  but 
the  crust 
Which    had    been    left    was    to    my 
craving  breast 
Fuel,  not  food.     I   chewed   the  bitter 
dust, 
And  bit  my  bloodless  arm,   and   licked 
the  brazen  rust. 


My  brain  began  to  fail  when  the  fourth 
morn 
Burst  o'er  the  golden  isles  —  a  fear- 
ful sleep, 
Which    through    the    caverns     dreary 
and  forlorn 
Of    the     riven    soul    sent    its    foul 

dreams  to  sweep 
With    whirlwind    swiftness  —  a   fall 
far  and  deep  — 
A  gulf,  a  void,  a  sense  of  senseless- 
ness— 
These  things  dwelt  in   me,  even  as 
shadows  keep 
Their    watch    in    some    dim   charnel's 
loneliness,  — 
A    shoreless    sea,    a    sky   sunless    and 
planetless  ! 


The  forms  which  peopled  this  terrific 
trance 
I  well  remember  —  like   a   choir  of 
devils, 
Around     me    they    involved    a   giddy 
dance; 
Legions  seemed  gathering  from  the 

misty  levels 
Of  ocean  to  supply  those  ceaseless 
revels, 
Foul     ceaseless     shadows: — thought 
could  not  divide 
The    actual    world    from    these    en- 
tangling evils, 
Which  so   bemocked   themselves   that 
I  descried 
All  shapes  like  mine  own  self  hideously 
multiplied. 


The  sense  of  day  and  night,  of  false 

and  true, 
Was    dead    within    me.     Yet    two 

visions  burst 
That    darkness  —  one,    as    since    that 

hour  I  knew, 
Was  not  a  phantom  of  the   realms 

accurst 
Where  then  my  spirit  dwelt  —  but, 

of  the  first, 


i5° 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


I  know  not  yet  was  it  a  dream  or  no. 
But    both,    though    not    distincter, 
were  immersed 
In  hues  which,  when  through  memory's 
waste  they  flow, 
Make  their  divided  streams  more  bright 
and  rapid  now. 


Methought  that  grate  was  lifted,  and 
the  seven 
Who  brought  me  thither  four  stiff 
corpses  bare, 
And  from  the  frieze  to  the   four  winds 
of  Heaven 
Hung    them    on    high    by    the    en- 
tangled hair; 
Swarthy    were    three  —  the     fourth 
was  very  fair: 
As  they  retired,   the  golden  moon  up- 
sprung, 
And  eagerly,  out  in  the  giddy  air 
Leaning  that  I  might  eat,  I   stretched 
and  clung 
Over  the  shapeless  depth  in  which  those 
corpses  hung. 


A  woman's  shape,  now  lank  and  cold 
and  blue, 
The   dwelling   of  the   many-colored 
worm, 
Hung    there;    the    white   and  hollow 
cheek  I  drew 
To    my    dry    lips  —  What    radiance 

did  inform 
Those  horny  eyes?  whose  was  that 
withered  form? 
Alas,   alas !   it   seemed   that    Cythna's 
ghost 
Laught    in    those    looks,    and    that 
the  flesh  was  warm 
Within  my  teeth  !  — A  whirlwind  keen 
as  frost 
Then  in  its  sinking  gulfs  my  sickening 
spirit  tost. 


Then  seemed  it  that  a  tameless  hurri- 
cane 


Arose,    and   bore    me    in    its    dark 
career 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars  that 
wane 
On  the  verge  of  formless  space —  it 

languished  there, 
And,  dying,  left  a  silence  lone   and 
drear, 
More  horrible   than   famine:  —  in  the 
deep 
The  shape  of   an  old  man  did  then 
appear, 
Stately   and  beautiful;    that    dreadful 
sleep 
His  heavenly  smiles  dispersed,   and   I 
could  wake  and  weep. 

XXVIIJ. 

And,    when    the    blinding    tears    had 
fallen,  I  saw 
That  column  and  those  corpses  and 
the  moon, 
And  felt  the  poisonous  tooth  of  hunger 
gnaw 
My  vitals,  I  rejoiced,  as  if  the  boon 
Of    senseless    death    would    be    ac- 
corded soon; — 
When  from  that  stony  gloom  a  voice 
arose, 
Solemn    and    sweet    as    when    low 
winds  attune 
The    midnight    pines;    the    grate    did 
then  unclose, 
And  on  that  reverend  form  the  moon- 
light did  repose. 


He  struck  my  chains,  and  gently  spake 
and  smiled; 
As    they    were    loosened    by     that 
Hermit  old, 
Mine  eyes  were  of  their  madness  half 
beguiled, 
To  answer  those  kind  looks.  —  He 

did  enfold 
His  giant  arms  around  me,  to   up- 
hold 
My    wretched    frame,    my     scorched 
limbs  he  wound 
In   linen   moist   and   balmy,    and  as 
cold 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


5* 


As  dew  to  drooping  leaves:  the  chain, 

Though  he  said  little,  did  he  speak 

with  sound 

to  me. 

Like  earthquake,  through  the  chasm  of 

"It  is  a  friend  beside  thee  —  take  good 

that  steep  stair  did  bound, 

cheer, 

Poor  victim,  thou  art    now    at    lib- 

XXX. 

erty  !" 
I    joyed    as    those,  a    human    tone   to 

As,  lifting  me,  it  fell!  — What  next  I 

hear, 

heard 

Who  in  cells  deep  and  lone  have  lan- 

Were  billows  leaping  on  the  harbor- 
bar 
And  the  shrill  sea-wind,  whose  breath 

guisht  many  a  year. 

idly  stirred 

XXXIII. 

My    hair;  —  I    looked    abroad,   and 

saw  a  star 

A  dim  and  feeble  joy,  whose  glimpses 

Shining    beside   a   sail,   and  distant 

oft 

far 

Were  quencht  in  a  relapse  of  wilder- 

That   mountain  and    its    column,    the 

ing  dreams, 

known  mark 

Yet    still  methought    we  sailed,    until 

Of    those    who    in     the    wide    deep 

aloft 

wandering  are, 

The  stars  of   night  grew  pallid,  and 

So  that  I  feared  some  Spirit   fell   and 

the  beams 

dark 

Of    morn  descended  on  the  ocean - 

In    trance    had  lain  me   thus  within  a 

streams, 

fiendish  bark. 

And  still  that  aged  man,  so  grand  and 

mild, 

XXXI. 

Tended     me,    even     as    some    sick 

mother  seems 

For  now  indeed  over  the  salt  sea-billow 

To  hang  in  hope  over  a  dying  child, 

I  sailed :   yet  dared   rot   look  upon 

Till  in  the    azure   East  darkness  again 

the  shape 

was  piled. 

Of  him  who  ruled  the  helm,  although 

the  pillow 

For  my  light  head  was  hollowed  in 

XXXIV. 

his  lap, 

And   my  bare  limbs  his  mantle  did 

And  then  the  night-wind,  steaming  from 

enwrap, 

the  shore, 

Fearing  it  was  a  fiend :  at  last,  he  bent 

Sent  odors  dying   sweet  across    the 

O'er  me  his  aged  face,  as  if  to  snap 

sea, 

Those    dreadful    thoughts    the     gentle 

And   the   swift    boat  the    little    waves 

grandsire  bent, 

which  bore 

And    to    my  inmost    soul   his   soothing 

Were  cut  by  its  keen  keel,  though 

looks  he   sent. 

slantingly; 

Soon  I  could  hear  the  leaves  sigh, 

XXXII. 

and  could  see 

The  myrtle-blossoms  starring  the  dim 

A  soft  and  healing  potion  to  my  lips 

grove, 

At  intervals    he    raised  —  now   looked 

As  past  the  pebbly  beach  the  boat 

on  high, 

did  flee 

To  mark  if  yet  the  starry  giant  dips 

On  sidelong  wing  into  a  silent  cove, 

His    zone    in    the     dim    sea — now 

Where   ebon  pines   a  shade  under  the 

cheeringly, 

starlight  wove. 

152 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


CANTO  IV. 


The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  soon 
the  bark 
Smote  on  the  beach  beside  a  tower 
of  stone; 
It  was  a  crumbling  heap  whose  portal 
dark 
With  blooming  ivy-trails  was  over- 
grown; 
Upon    whose     floor    the    spangling 
sands  were  strown, 
And  rarest  sea-shells,  which  the  eter- 
nal flood, 
Slave  to  the  mother  of  the  months, 
had  thrown 
Within  the  walls  of  that  gray  tower, 
which  stood 
A  changeling  of  man's  art  nurst  amid 
Nature's  brood. 

II. 

When     the    old    man   his    boat    had 
anchored, 
He    wound    me    in    his    arms    with 
tender  care, 
And   very   few    but    kindly  words   he 
said, 
And   bore    me    through    the    tower 

adown  a  stair, 
Whose  smooth  descent  some  cease- 
less step  to  wear 
For    many   a   year    had    fallen.  —  We 
came  at  last 
To    a    small     chamber    which    with 
mosses  rare 
Was    tapestried,    where    me    his    soft 
hands  placed 
Upon  a  couch  of  grass  and  oak-leaves 
interlaced. 

III. 

•The    moon    was    darting    through  the 
lattices 
Its  yellow  light,  warm  as  the  beams 
of  day  — 
So    warm    that,     to    admit    the     dewy 
breeze, 
The    old    man    opened     them;    the 
moonlight  lay 


Upon    a    lake    whose    waters    wove 
their  play 
Even  to  the  threshold  of  that  lonely 
home: 
Within  was  seen  in  the  dim  waver- 
ing ray 
The  antique  sculptured  roof,  and  many 
a  tome 
Whose  lore  had  made  that  sage  all  that 
he  had  become. 


IV. 


The  rock-built  barrier  of  the  sea  was 
past,  — 
And  I  was  on  the  margin  of  a  lake, 
A  lonely  lake,  amid  the  forests  vast 
And    snowy    mountains: — did    my 

spirit  wake 
From  sleep  as  many-colored  as  the 
snake 
That  girds  eternity?  in  life  and  truth 
Might  not  my  heart  its  cravings  ever 
slake? 
Was  Cythna  then  a  dream,  and  all  my 
youth, 
And  all  its  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  its 
joy  and  ruth? 


Thus  madness  came   again  —  a  milder 
madness 
Which  darkened  naught  but  time's 
unquiet  flow 
With  supernatural   shades  of  clinging 
sadness; 
That  gentle  Hermit,  in  my  helpless 

woe, 
By  my  sick  couch  was  busy  to  and 
fro, 
Like  a  strong  spirit  ministrant  of  good  : 
When  I  was  healed,  he  led  me  forth 
to  show 
The  wonders  of  his  sylvan  solitude, 
And  we  together  sate  by  that  isle-fretted 
flood. 


He  knew  his  soothing  words  to  weave 
with  skill 
From    all     my    madness    told:    like 
mine  own  heart, 


THE   RE  VOL  T  OF  ISLAM. 


53 


Of  Cythna  would  he  question  me,  until 
That  thrilling    name  had  ceased  to 

make  me  start, 
From  his  familiar  lips  —  it  was  not 
art, 
Of   wisdom    and    of    justice    when    he 
spoke  — 
When  mid  soft  looks  of  pity  there 
would  dart 
A  glance  as  keen  as  is  the  lightning's 

stroke 
When  it  doth  rive  the  knots  of    some 
ancestral  oak. 


Thus  slowly  from  my  brain  the  dark- 
ness rolled; 
My    thoughts    their    due    array    did 
reassume 
Through    the     enchantments    of    that 
Hermit  old; 
Then  I  bethought  me  of  the  glorious 

doom 
Of    those    who    sternly   struggle    to 
relume 
The  lamp  of  Hope  o'er  man's  bewil- 
dered lot; 
And,    sitting   by   the  waters    in  the 
gloom 
Of  eve,   to  that  friend's  heart  I    told 
my  thought  — 
That  heart  which  had    grown    old,  but 
had  corrupted  not. 


That  hoary  man  had    spent    his    live- 
long age 
In     converse     with    the    dead    who 
leave  the  stamp 
Of   ever-burning  thoughts  on  many  a 
page, 
When   they  are  gone  into  the  sense- 
less damp 
Of  graves :    his  spirit  thus  became  a 
lamp 
Of  splendor,  like  to  those  on  which  it 
fed: 
Through  peopled    haunts,   the    city 
and  the  camp, 
Deep    thirst    for    knowledge    had    his 
footsteps  led, 


And  all  the  ways  of  men  among  mankind 
he  read. 

IX. 

But  custom  maketh  blind  and  obdurate 
The  loftiest  hearts  :  —  he  had  beheld 
the  woe 
In    which    mankind    was    bound,    but 
deemed  that  fate 
Which  made  them  abject  would  pre- 
serve them  so; 
And    in    such    faith,  some   steadfast 
joy  to  know, 
He  sought  this  cell:   but,  when  fame 
went  abroad 
That  one  in  Argolis  did  undergo 
Torture  for  liberty,  and  that  the  crowd 
High  truths  from  gifted  lips  had  heard 
and  understood; 


And  that  the  multitude  was  gathering 
wide, 
His    spirit    leaped   within    his  aged 
frame, 
In    lonely    peace    he    could    no    more 
abide, 
But  to  the  land  on  which  the  vic- 
tor's flame 
Had  fed,  my  native  land,  the   Her- 
mit came : 
Each   heart   was   there   a    shield,    and 
every  tongue 
Was  as  a  sword,  of  truth  —  young 
Laon's  name 
Rallied    their    secret    hopes,     though 
tyrants  sung 
Hymns  of  triumphant  joy  our  scattered 
tribes  amone. 


He  came  to   the  lone  column  on  the 
rock, 
And    with    his    sweet    and    mighty 
eloquence 
The  hearts  of   those  who  watched  it 
did  unlock, 
And  made    them   melt    in    tears    of 

penitence. 
They    gave    him    entrance    free    to 
bear  me  thence. 


154 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


"  Since    this,"     the    old    man    said, 
"  seven  years  are  spent 
While  slowly  truth  on  thy  benighted 
sense 
Has  crept  ;    the  hope  which  wildered 
it  has  lent 
Meanwhile  to  me  the  power  of  a  sub- 
lime intent. 


"  Yes,  from  the  records  of  my  youth- 
ful state, 
And    from    the    lore    of    bards    and 
sages  old, 
From  whatsoe'er  my  wakened  thoughts 
create 
Out  of  the  hopes  of  thine  aspirings 

bold, 
Have   I  collected   language    to   un- 
fold 
Truth  to  my  countrymen;   from  shore 
to  shore 
Doctrines     of     human     power     my 
words  have  told, 
They  have  been   heard,  and  men  as- 
pire to  more 
Than  they  have  ever  gained  or  ever  lost 
of  yore. 


"  In  secret  chambers  parents  read,  and 
weep, 
My  writings  to  their  babes,  no  longer 
blind; 
And    young    men    gather    when    their 
tyrants  sleep, 
And  vows  of   faith  each  to  the  other 

bind; 
And     marriageable     maidens,     who 
have  pined 
With     love    till    life    seemed     melting 
through  their  look, 
A  warmer  zeal,  a  nobler  hope,  now 
find; 
And    every    bosom    thus    is    rapt    and 
shook, 
Like     autumn's    myriad   leaves   in    one 
swoln  mountain-brook. 


;The     tyrants     of     the     Golden    City 
tremble 


At  voices  which  are  heard  about  the 
streets, 
The  ministers  of   fraud  can  scarce  dis- 
semble 
The  lies  of    their  own  heart, — but, 

when  one  meets 
Another  at  the  shrine,  he  inly  weets, 
Though  he  says  nothing,  that  the  truth 
is  known; 
Murderers  are   pale  upon   the  judg- 
ment-seats, 
And    gold    grows     vile    even     to    the 
wealthy  crone, 
And  laughter  fills  the  Fane,  and  curses 
shake  the  Throne. 


xv. 


"  Kind    thoughts,  and   mighty   hopes, 
and  gentle  deeds 
Abound,   for   fearless  love,  and  the 
pure  law 
Of  mild  equality  and  peace,  succeeds 
To  faiths  which  long  have  held  the 

world  in  awe, 
Bloody    and    false    and    cold. — As 
whirlpools  draw 
All  wrecks    of  ocean  to  their    chasm, 
the  sway 
Of  thy  strong  genius,   Laon,  which 
foresaw 
This  hope,  compels  all  spirits  to  obey 
Which   round  thy  secret  strength   now 
throng  in  wide  array. 


"  For  I  have  been  thy  passive  instru- 
ment "  — 
(As    thus    the    old    man    spake,   his 
countenance 
Gleamed     on     me     like  a     spirit's)—- 
"  Thou  hast  lent 
To  me,  to  all,  the  power  to  advance 
Towards  this  unforeseen  deliverance 
From  our   ancestral   chains  —  ay,  thou 
didst  rear 
That    lamp  of  hope   on  high  which 
time  nor  chance 
Nor  change    may  not  extinguish,  and 
my  share 
Of  good  was  o'er  the  world  its  gathered 
beams  to  bear. 


EHE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


55 


"  But   I,  alas  !  am  both  unknown  and 
old, 
And,  though  the  woof  of   wisdom  I   | 
know  well 
To  dye    in    hues    of    language,"    I    am   ! 
cold 
In    seeming,    and   the  hopes   which 

inly  dwell 
My  manners  note  that    I    did  long 
repel: 
But    Laon's  name  to  the    tumultuous 
throng 
Were  like  the  star  whose  beams  the 
waves  compel, 
And  tempests,   and  his   soul-subduing 
tongue 
Were  as  a  lance  to  quell  the  mailed  crest   i 
of  wrong. 

XVIII. 

"  Perchance  blood  need   not    flow,  if 
thou  at  length 
Wouldst    rise,    perchance    the    very 
slaves  would  spare 
Their  brethren  and  themselves;    great 
is  the  strength 
Of  words  —  for  lately  did  a  maiden 

fair, 
Who  from  her  childhood  has  been 
taught  to  bear 
The  tyrant's  heaviest  yoke,  arise,  and 
make 
Her  sex  the  law  of  truth  and   free- 
dom hear, 
And   with   these   quiet    words  —  '  For 
thine  own  sake, 
I  prithee  spare  me'  —  did  with  ruth  so 
take 

XIX. 

"All    hearts    that   even  the   torturer, 

who  had  bound 
Her  meek  calm   frame,   ere   it  was 

yet  impaled, 
Loosened     her,    weeping     then;     nor 

could  be  found 
One    human   hand   to  harm  her.  — 

Unassailed 
Therefore    she    walks    through    the 

great  City,  veiled 


In  virtue's  adamantine  eloquence, 
'Gainst   scorn  and   death  and  pain 
thus  trebly  mailed, 
And   blending,   in  the  smiles  of   that 
defence, 
The  serpent  and  the  dove,  wisdom  and 
innocence. 


"The      wild-eyed       women       throng 
.  around  her  path: 
From     their     luxurious     dungeons, 
from  the  dust 
Of  meaner  thralls,   from   the   oppres- 
sor's wrath, 
Or  the  caresses  of  his  sated  lust, 
They  congregate:    in  her  they  put 
their  trust; 
The  tyrants  send  their  armed   slaves 
to  quell 
Her    power;      they,    even     like    a 
thunder-gust 
Caught  by  some  forest,  bend  beneath 
the  spell 
Of  that  young  maiden's  speech,  and  to 
their  chiefs  rebel. 


"  Thus  she  doth  equal  laws  and  jus- 
tice teach 
To  woman,   outraged  and  polluted 
long; 
Gathering  the  sweetest  fruit  in  human 
reach 
For    those    fair    hands     now     free, 

while  armed  wrong 
Trembles  before  her  look,  though  it 
be  strong: 
Thousands    thus     dwell    beside    her, 
virgins  bright, 
And    matrons    with   their   babes,   a 
stately  throng  ! 
Lovers    renew    the   vows  which   they 
did  plight 
In  early  faith,    and  hearts  long  parted 
now  unite; 


And  homeless  orphans  find  a  home 
near  her, 


1 56 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


And    those    poor    victims    of    the 
proud,  no  less, 
Fair    wrecks,    on    whom    the   smiling 
world,  with  stir, 
Thrusts      the      redemption     of     its 

wickedness :  — 
In  squalid  huts  and  in  its  palaces 
Sits  Lust  alone,  while  o'er  the  land 
is  borne 
Her  voice,   whose  awful  sweetness 
doth  repress 
All  evil,  and  her   foes  relenting«turn, 
And   cast    the   vote   of    love  in   hope's 
abandoned  urn. 


"  So,  in  the  populous  City,  a  young 
maiden 
Has    baffled    Havoc    of    the     prey 
which  he 
Marks    as    his    own    whene'er,    with 
chains  o'erladen, 
Men  make  them  arms  to  hurl  down 

tyranny,  ■ — • 
False    arbiter    between    the    bound 
and  free; 
And  o'er  the  land,  in  hamlets  and  in 
towns, 
The  multitudes  collect  tumultuously, 
And  throng  in  arms;    but  tyranny  dis- 
owns 
Their  claim,  and  gathers  strength  around 
its  trembling  thrones. 


"Blood  soon,   although    unwillingly, 
to  shed 
The      free     cannot     forbear  —  The 
Queen  of  Slaves, 
The  hoodwinked  Angel  of  the  blind 
and  dead, 
Custom,    with  iron  mace    points   to 

the  graves 
Where  her  own  standard  desolately 
waves 
Over  the  dust  of  Prophets  and  of  Kings. 
Many  yet  stand  in  her  array  —  '  she 
paves 
Her    path    with   human    hearts,'    and 
o'er  it  flings 
The  wildering  gloom  of  her  immeasur- 
able wings. 


"There  is  a  plain  beneath  the  City's 
wall, 
Bounded  by  misty  mountains,  wide 
and  vast, 
Millions  there  lift  at  Freedom's  thrill- 
ing call 
Ten  thousand  standards  wide,  they 

load  the  blast 
Which  bears   one   sound    of    many 
voices  past, 
And    startles     on    his     throne     their 
sceptred  foe :  — 
He  sits  amid  his  idle  pomp  aghast, 
And   that  his   power    hath    past  away 
doth  know  — 
Why  pause  the  victor  swords  to  seal  his 
overthrow  ? 


"The    tyrant's  guards  resistance   yet 
maintain : 
Fearless    and    fierce    and    hard    as 
beasts  of  blood, 
They  stand  a  speck  amid  the  peopled 
plain; 
Carnage  and  ruin  have  been  made 

their  food 
From  infancy  —  ill  has  become  their 
good, 
And  for  its  hateful  sake  their  will  has 
wove 
The  chains  which  eat  their  hearts  — 
the  multitude, 
Surrounding     them,    with     words     of 
human  love 
Seek   from  their  own  decay  their  stub- 
born minds  to  move. 


"  Over  the  land  is  felt  a  sudden  pause, 

As    night    and    day,   those   ruthless 

bands  around, 

The   watch  of  love  is  kept  —  a  trance 

which  awes 

The  thoughts  of  men  with  hope  — 

as,  when  the  sound 
Of    whirlwind    whose    fierce    blasts 
the  waves  and  clouds  confound 
Dies  suddenly,  the  mariner  in  fear 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


57 


Feels  silence  sink  upon  his  heart  — 

thus  bound, 
The  conquerors   pause,    and  oh    may 

freemen  ne'er 
"Jlasp  the  relentless  knees  of  Dread  the 

murderer  ! 


XXVIII. 

"If  blood  be  shed,  'tis  but  a  change 
and  choice 
Of  bonds — from  slavery  to  coward- 
ice 
A  wretched  fall !  —  Uplift  thy  charmed 
voice  ! 
Pour   on    those  evil    men   the  love 

that  lies 
Hovering  within  those  spirit-sooth- 
ing eyes  ! 
Arise,  my  friend,  farewell !  "  — As  thus 
he  spake, 
From  the  green  earth  lightly  I  did 
arise, 
As  one  out  of  dim  dreams  that  doth 
awake, 
And  looked  upon  the  depth  of  that  re- 
posing lake. 

XXIX. 

I    saw     my     countenance       reflected 
there;  — 
And  then  my  youth  fell  on  me  like 
a  wind 
Descending  on  still  waters  —  My  thin 
hair 
Was  prematurely  gray,  my  face  was 

lined 
With    channels,    such    as    suffering 
leaves  behind, 
Not  age;    my  brow   was  pale,  but  in 
my  cheek 
And  lips  a  flush  of  gnawing  fire  did 
find 
Their  food  and  dwelling;    though  mine 
eyes  might  speak 
A  subtle  mind  and  strong  within  a  frame 
thus  weak. 


And  though  their  lustre  now  was  spent 
and  faded, 


Yet  in  my  hollow  looks  and  withered 
mien 
The  likeness  of   a  shape  for  which  was 
braided 
The    brightest  woof  of    genius  still 

was  seen  — 
One  who,  methought,  had  gone  from 
the  world's  scene, 
And  left  it  vacant  —  'twas  her  lover's 
face  — 
It  might  resemble  her  —  it  once  had 
been 
The   mirror  of  her  thoughts,  and  still 
the  grace 
Which  her  mind's  shadow  cast  left  there 
a  lingering  trace. 

XXXI. 

What  then  was  I  ?    She  slumbered  with 
the  dead. 
Glory  and  joy  and  peace  had  come 
and  gone. 
Doth  the  cloud  perish  when  the  beams 
are  fled 
Which  steeped  its  skirts  in  gold?  or, 

dark  and  lone, 
Doth    it   not   through    the    paths  of 
night,  unknown, 
On  outspread  wings  of  its  own   wind 
upborne, 
Four  rain  upon  the  earth?    The  stars 
are  shown 
When    the  cold    moon    sharpens   her 
silver  horn 
Under  the  sea,  and  make  the  wide  night 
not  forlorn. 


Strengthened    in    heart,  yet  sad,  that 

aged  man 
I  left  with  interchange  of  looks  and 

tears 
And    lingering    speech,     and    to    the 

Camp  began 
My  way.     O'er   many  a  mountain- 
chain  which  rears 
Its  hundred  crests   aloft,   my  spirit 

bears 
My   frame;    o'er   many  a  dale   and 

many  a  moor, 
And  gayly  now  meseems  serene  earth 

wears 


5S 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


The    blosmy    spring's    star-bright    in- 
vestiture, 
A  vision  which  aught  sad  from  sadness 
might  allure. 


My  powers  revived  within  me,  and  I 
went, 
As   one  whom  winds  waft  o'er  the 
bending  grass, 
Through    many    a  vale  of  that  broad 
continent. 
At  night  when  I  reposed,  fair  dreams 

did  pass 
Before  my  pillow;    my  own  Cythna 
was, 
Not  like  a  child  of  death,  among  them 
ever; 
When    I    arose   from    rest,  a  woful 
mass 
That   gentlest    sleep  seemed  from  my 
life  to  sever, 
As  if  the  light  of  youth  were  not  with- 
drawn forever. 


Aye  as  I  went,  that  maiden   who  had 
reared 
The    torch  of  Truth  afar,  of  whose 
high  deeds 
The     Hermit    in    his   pilgrimage    had 
heard, 
Haunted  my  thoughts.     Ah,  Hope 

its  sickness  feeds 
With  whatsoe'er  it  finds,  or  flowers, 
or  weeds  !  — 
Could  she  be  Cythna  ?    WTas  that  corpse 
a  shade 
Such  as  self-torturing  thought  from 
madness  breeds? 
Why  was  this  hope  not  torture?     Yet 
it  made 
A  light  around   my  steps  which  would 
not  ever  fade. 


CANTO  V. 

I. 

Over  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped, 
A    snowy    steep: — the     moon     was 
hanging  low 


Over  the  Asian  mountains,  and,  out- 
spread 
The  plain,  the  City,  and  the  Camp, 

below, 
Skirted  the  midnight  ocean's  glim- 
mering flow; 
The  City's  moon-lit   spires  and  myriad 
lamps 
Like  stars  in  a  sublunar  sky  did  glow, 
And  fires  blazed  far  amid  the  scattered 
camps, 
Like  springs  of  flame  which  burst  where'er 
swift  Earthquake  stamps. 


All  slept    but   those  in  watchful  arms 
who  stood, 
And    those    who    sate    tending    the 
beacon's  light, 
And    the   few    sounds    from    that    vast 
multitude 
Made   silence  more  profound. — Oh 

what  a  might 
Of     human    thought  was  cradled  in 
that  night ! 
How   many  hearts  impenetrably  veiled 
Beat    underneath    its    shade,     what 
secret  fight 
Evil    and    good,    in    woven    passions 
mailed, 
Waged  through  that  silent   throng,  —  a 
war  that  never  failed  ! 


And    now    the   Power    of    Good   held 
victory, 
So,  through  the  labyrinth  of  many  a 
tent, 
Among  the  silent  millions  who  did  lie 
In  innocent  sleep,  exultingly  I  went; 
The   moon    had    left    Heaven  desert 
now,  but,  lent 
From  eastern  morn,  the  first  faint  lustre 
showed 
An  armed  youth;- — over  his  spear  he 

bent 
His  downward  face.  —  "  A  friend  !  " 
I  cried  aloud, 
And  quickly  common  hopes  made   free- 
men  understood. 


THE    REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


159 


I  sate  beside  him  while  the  morning 
beam 
Crept    slowly    over    Heaven,     and 
talked  with  him 
Of  those  immortal  hopes,   a  glorious 
theme  ! 
Which  led  us  forth,  until  the  stars 

grew  dim : 
And    all  the  while    methought    his 
voice  did  swim 
As  if  it  drowned  in  remembrance  were 
Of  thoughts  which  make  the  moist 
eyes  overbrim : 
At  last,  when  daylight  'gan  to  fill  the 
air, 
He  looked  on  me,  and  cried  in  wonder, 
"  Thou  art  here  !  " 


V. 


Then,    suddenly,   I  knew  it  was   the 

youth 
In  whom  its  earliest  hopes  my  spirit 
found; 
But  envious  tongues  had  stained  his 
spotless  truth, 
And  thoughtless    pride  his  love  in 

silence  bound, 
And    shame    and    sorrow    mine    in 
toils  had  wound, 
Whilst  he  was  innocent,  and  I  deluded; 
The  truth   now  came  upon  me;  on 
the  ground 
Tears    of    repenting    joy,    which    fast 
intruded, 
Fell  fast,  and  o'er  its  peace  our  mingling 
spirits  brooded. 


Thus  while  with  rapid  lips  and  earnest 

eyes 

We  talked,    a   sound    of    sweeping 

conflict,  spread 

As  from  the  earth,  did  suddenly  arise; 

From    every   tent,    roused    by   that 

clamor  dread, 
Our    bands    outsprung,   and    seized 
their  arms  —  We  sped 
Towards  the    sound:   our  tribes  were 
gathering  far. 


Those    sanguine    slaves,    amid    ten 
thousand  dead 
Stabbed    in    their    sleep,   trampled  in 
treacherous  war 
The  gentle    hearts  whose   power  their 
lives  had  sought  to  spare. 


Like    rabid    snakes    that    sting    some 
gentle  child 
Who  brings  them  food  when  winter 
false  and  fair 
Allures  them  forth  with  its  cold  smiles, 
so  wild 
They  rage  among  the  camp; — they 

overbear 
The  patriot  host  —  confusion,  then 
despair 
Descends  like  night  —  when  "  Laon  !  " 
one  did  cry : 
Like  a  bright  ghost  from  Heaven, 
that  shout  did  scare 
The  slaves,  and,  widening  through  the 
vaulted  sky, 
Seemed  sent  from  Earth  to  Heaven  in 
sign  of  victory. 


In  sudden  panic  those  false  murderers 
fled, 
Like  insect  tribes  before  the  northern 
gale: 
But,    swifter    still,  our    hosts  encom- 
passed 
Their    shattered    ranks,    and    in    a 

craggy  vale, 
Where    even    their    fierce    despair 
might  naught  avail, 
Hemmed    them  around  !  —  And  then 
revenge  and  fear 
Made  the  high  virtue  of  the  patriots 
fail: 
One    pointed    on    his  foe   the   mortal 
spear  — 
I  rushed   before    its   point,   and   cried 
"  Forbear,  forbear  !  " 

IX. 

The  spear  transfixed  my  arm  that  was 
uplifted 
In    swift    expostulation,    and    the 
blood 


i6o 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Gushed    round    its    point:    I    smiled, 
and —  "0  thou  gifted 
With  eloquence  which  shall  not  be 

withstood, 
Flow  thus  !  "   I  cried  in  joy,  "  thou 
vital  flood, 
Until  my  heart  be  dry,  ere  thus  the 
cause 
For  which  thou  wert  aught  worthy 
be  subdued  !  — 
Ah  !  ye  are  pale,  —  ye  weep,  —  your 
passions  pause,  — 
'T is  well!  ye  feel  the  truth  of  love's 
benignant  laws. 


"  Soldiers,  our  brethren  and  our  friends 
are  slain : 
Ye  murdered  them,  I  think,  as  they 
did  sleep ! 
Alas  !  what  have  ye  done  ?    The  slight- 
est pain 
Which  ye  might  suffer,  there  were 

eyes  to  weep, 
But  ye  have  quenched  them  —  there 
were  smiles  to  steep 
Your  hearts  in  balm,  but  they  are  lost 
in  woe; 
And  those  whom  love    did  set  his 
watch  to  keep 
Around  your  tents,  truth's  freedom  to 
bestow, 
Ye    stabbed    as    they    did    sleep  —  but 
they  forgive  ye  now. 


"  Oh  wherefore  should  ill  ever   flow 
from  ill, 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  forever 
breed? 
We  all  are  brethren  —  even  the  slaves 
who  kill 
For  hire  are  men;    and  to    avenge 

misdeed 
On    the    misdoer    doth   but   Misery 
feed 
With  her  own  broken  heart !    O  Earth, 
O  Heaven  ! 
And  thou,   dread  Nature,  which  to 
every  deed, 
And  all   that  lives  or  is,   to    be  hath 
given, 


Even  as  to  thee  have   these   done  ill, 
and  are  forgiven  ! 


"Join    then   your  hands    and  hearts, 
and  let  the  past 
Be  as  a  grave,  which  gives  not  up 
its  dead, 
To  evil  thoughts."  — A  film  then  over- 
cast 
My    sense    with    dimness,    for     the 

wound,  which  bled 
Freshly,    swift    shadows  o'er  mine 
eyes  had  shed. 
When  I  awoke,  I  lay  mid  friends  and 
foes, 
And    earnest    countenances   on   me 
shed 
The  light  of  questioning  looks,  whilst 
one  did  close 
My    wound  with    balmiest   herbs,  and 
soothed  me  to  repose. 


And  one,  whose  spear  had  pierced  me, 
leaned  beside, 
With     quivering    lips    and    humid 
eyes;  —  and  all 
Seemed    like    some    brothers     on    a 
journey  wide 
Gone     forth,    whom    now    strange 

meeting  did  befal 
In  a  strange  land  round  one  whom 
they  might  call 
Their  friend,  their  chief,  their  father, 
for  assay 
Of    peril,    which    had    saved    them 
from  the  thrall 
Of    death,  now    suffering.     Thus    the 
vast  array 
Of   those  fraternal  bands  were    recon- 
ciled that  day. 


Lifting  the  thunder  of  their  acclamation 
Towards  the  City,   then    the  multi- 
tude, 
And  I  among  them,  went  in  joy  —  a 

nation 
Made  free  by  love,  a  mighty  brother- 
hood 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


161 


Linkt    by   a  jealous   interchange  of 
good; 
A  glorious  pageant,  more  magnificent 
Than  kingly  slaves  arrayed  in  gold 
and  blood, 
When  they  return  from  carnage,  and 
are  sent 
In  triumph  bright  beneath  the  populous 
battlement. 


Afar,  the  City-walls  were  thronged  on 
high, 
And  myriads  on  each   giddy  turret 
clung, 
And  to  each  spire  far  lessening  in  the 
sky 
Bright    pennons  on  the    idle  winds 

were  hung; 
As  we  approached,  a  shout  of  joy- 
ance  sprung 
At  once  from  all  the  crowd,  as  if  the 
vast  . 

And    peopled    Earth   its    boundless 
skies  among 
The  sudden  clamor  of  delight  had  cast, 
When  from  before  its  face  some  general 
wreck  had  past. 


Our  armies  through  the  City's  hundred 
gates 
Were  poured,  like  brooks  which  to 
the  rocky  lair 
Of  some  deep  lake,  whose  silence  them 
awaits, 
Throng  from    the    mountains  when 

the  storms  are  there: 
And,  as  we  past  through  the  calm 
sunny  air, 
A    thousand    flower-inwoven    crowns 
were  shed, 
The  token-flowers  of  truth  and  free- 
dom fair, 
And  fairest  hands  bound  them  on  many 
a  head, 
Those  angels  of  love's  heaven  that  over 
all  was  spread. 


I  trod  as  one  tranced  in  some  raptur- 
ous vision: 


Those  bloody  bands  so  lately  recon- 
ciled 
Were,  ever  as  they  went,  by  the  con- 
trition 
Of    anger    turned    to    love,  from  ill 

beguiled, 
And  every  one  on  them  more  gently 
smiled 
Because    they   had    done    evil :  —  the 
sweet  awe 
Of  such  mild  looks  made  their  own 
hearts  grow  mild, 
And  did  with  soft  attraction  ever  draw 
Their   spirits   to  the  love  of  freedom's 
equal  law. 


And    they  and    all    in  one  loud  sym- 
phony 
My  name  with  Liberty  commingling 
lifted, 
"The  friend  and  the  preserver  of  the 
free  ! 
The   parent  of  this  joy!"  and  fair 

eyes,  gifted 
With  feelings  caught  from  one  who 
had  uplifted 
The  light  of  a  great  spirit,  round  me 
shone ; 
And    all   the    shapes  of    this   grand 
scenery  shifted 
Like  restless  clouds  before  the  steadfast 
sun,  — 
Where  was  that  Maid?  I  asked,  but  it 
was  known  of  none. 

XIX. 

Laone   was  the   name    her     love    had 
chosen, 
For  she  was  nameless,  and  her  birth 
none  knew: 
Where  was  Laone  now? — The  words 
were  frozen 
Within   my   lips   with   fear;    but    to 

subdue 
Such  dreadful  hope  to  my  great  task 
was  due, 
And  when  at  length  one  brought  reply 
that  she 
To-morrow    would    appear,   I    then 
withdrew 


[62 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


To    judge    what    need    for    that  great 
throng  might  be, 
For  now  the  stars  came  thick  over  the 
twilight  sea. 

xx. 

Yet  need  was  none  for  rest  or  food  to 
care, 
Even    though    that    multitude    was 
passing  great, 
Since  each  one  for  the  other  did  pre- 
pare 
All  kindly  succor.  —  Therefore  to  the 

gate 
Of  the  Imperial   House,  now  deso- 
late, 
I  past,  and   there  was  found    aghast, 
alone, 
The  fallen  Tyrant.  —  Silently  he  sate 
Upon  the  footstool  of  his  golden  throne, 
Which,  starred  with  sunny  gems,  in  its 
own  lustre  shone. 


Alone,  but  for  one  child  who  led  before 
him 
A    graceful  dance :   the   only  living 
thing 
Of    all    the    crowd    which    thither    to 
adore  him 
Flocked      yesterday,     who     solace 

sought   to    bring 
In   his    abandonment !  —  She  knew 
the  King 
Had   praised  her  dance  of  yore;    and 
now  she  wove 
Its    circles,   aye   weeping    and  mur- 
muring, 
Mid  her  sad  task  of  unregarded  love, 
That  to  no  smiles  it  might  his  speechless 
sadness  move. 


She  fled  to  him,  and  wildly  claspt  his 

feet, 
When  human   steps  were  heard:  — 

he  moved  nor  spoke, 
Nor  changed    his  hue,   nor  raised   his 

looks  to  meet 


The    gaze    of    strangers  —  Our  loud 

entrance  woke 
The  echoes  of  the  hall,   which  cir- 
cling broke 
The  calm  of  its  recesses ;  —  like  a  tomb, 
Its  sculptured  walls  vacantly  to  the 
stroke 
Of    footfalls    answered,   and    the   twi- 
light's gloom 
Lay   like    a    charnel's    mist    within    the 
radiant  dome. 


The    little    child    stood    up    when   we 
came  nigh; 
Her    lips  and  cheeks   seemed  very 
pale  and  wan, 
But   on    her  forehead  and  within  her 
eye 
Lay  beauty  which  makes  hearts  that 

feed  thereon 
Sick  with  excess  of  sweetness;    on 
the  throne 
She  leaned; — the   King,   with    gath- 
ered brow  and  lips 
Wreathed    by  long   scorn,  did  inly 
sneer  and  frown, 
With  hue  like  that  when  some  great 
painter  dips 
His    pencil   in  the  gloom  of  earthquake 
and  eclipse. 

XXIV. 

She  stood  beside  him  like  a  rainbow 
braided 
Within  some  storm  when  scarce  its 
shadows  vast 
From  the  blue  paths  of  the  swift  sun 
have  faded; 
A    sweet    and    solemn     smile,    like 

Cythna's,  cast 
One  moment's    light,   which    made 
my  heart  beat  fast, 
O'er  that  child's  parted  lips  —  a  gleam 
of  bliss, 
A   shade   of  vanisht  days,  — as  the 
tears  past 
Which  wrapt  it,  even  as  with  a  father's 
kiss 
I  prest  those  softest  eyes  in  trembling 
tenderness. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


^3 


The  sceptred  wretch  then    from    that 
solitude 
I   drew,  and,    of  his  change    com- 
passionate, 
With   words    of   sadness    soothed    his 
rugged  mood. 
But   he,  while  pride  and   fear  held 

deep  debate, 
With  sullen  guile  of  ill-dissembled 
hate 
Glared  on    me    as    a    toothless  snake 
might  glare : 
Pity,  not  scorn,  I   felt  though  des- 
olate 
The  desolater  now,  and  unaware 
The  curses  which  he  mockt  had  caught 
him  by  the  hair. 


I  led  him   forth  from  that  which  now 
might  seem 
A  gorgeous  grave  :    through  portals 
sculptured  deep 
With  imagery  beautiful  as  dream 
We  went,  and  left  the  shades  which 

tend  on  sleep 
Over  its  unregarded  gold  to  keep 
Their  silent  watch.  — The  child  trod 
faintingly, 
And,   as  she  went,  the  tears  which 
she  did  weep 
Glanced    in    the    starlight;     wildered 
seemed  she, 
And,  when  I  spake,  for  sobs  she  could 
not  answer  me. 

XXVII. 

At  last  the  Tyrant  cried,  "  She  hun- 
gers, slave, 
Stab  her,  or  give  her  bread!"  —  It 
was  a  tone 
Such    as  sick  fancies  in  a   new-made 
grave 
Might    hear.     I   trembled,    for   the 

truth  was  known : 
He   with  this  child  had  thus  been 
left  alone, 
And  neither  had  gone  forth  for  food, 
—  but  he, 


In  mingled  pride  and  awe,  cowered 
near  his  throne, 
And  she,  a  nursling  of  captivity, 
Knew  naught  beyond  those  walls,  nor 
what  such  change  might  be. 


And  he  was  troubled  at  a  charm  with- 
drawn 
Thus  suddenly;   that  sceptres  ruled 
no  more  — 
That    even    from    gold    the    dreadful 
strength  was  gone 
Which  once  made  all  things  subject 

to  its  power  — 
Such  wonder  seized  him  as  if  hour 
by  hour 
The   past   had  come  again;    and    the 
swift  fall 
Of  one  so  great  and  terrible  of  yore 
To  desolateness  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Like  wonder  stirred  who  saw  such  awful 
change  befal. 


A    mighty   crowd,    such    as   the  wide 
land  pours 
Once    in    a    thousand    years,    now 
gathered  round 
The  fallen  Tyrant;  —  like  the  rush  of 
showers 
Of    hail  in  spring,  pattering    along 

the  ground, 
Their    many     footsteps    fell  —  else 
came  no  sound 
From     the      wide       multitude;      that 
lonely  man 
Then     knew    the    burden     of    his 
change,  and  found, 
Concealing  in  the  dust  his  visage  wan, 
Refuge     from    the     keen    looks    which 
through  his  bosom  ran. 


And    he     was     faint    withal:     I    sate 

beside  him 
Upon    the    earth,    and    took    that 

child  so  fair 
From  his  weak  arms,   that    ill    might 

none  betide  him 


1 64 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Or  her;  —  when  food  was    brought 

to  them,  her  share 
To    his    averted  lips   the  child    did 
bear, 
But,   when  she  saw  he   had  enough, 
she  ate, 
And  wept   the  while; — the    lonely 
man's  despair 
Hunger   then  overcame,   and,   of    his 
state 
Forgetful,  on  the  dust  as  in  a  trance  he 
sate. 


Slowly  the  silence  of  the  multitudes 
Past,  as  when  far  is  heard  in  some 
lone  dell 
The  gathering  of    a  wind  among  the 
woods  — 
"And    he    is    fallen!"     they    cry; 

"  he  who  did  dwell 
Like  famine  or  the  plague,  or  aught 
more  fell, 
Among    our    homes,    is    fallen !     the 
murderer 
Who    slaked  his  thirsting    soul,    as 
from  a  well 
Of  blood    and  tears,  with  ruin  !   he  is 
here  ! 
Sunk  in  a  gulf  of  scorn  from  which  none 
may  him  rear  !" 


Then  was  heard — "He  who  judged, 
let  him  be  brought 
To    judgment !      Blood     for    blood 
cries  from  the  soil 
On  which  his  crimes  have  deep  pollu- 
tion wrought ! 
Shall   Othman   only    unavenged  de- 
spoil? 
Shall    they   who    by    the    stress     of 
grinding  toil 
Wrest    from  the    unwilling    earth    his 
luxuries 
Perish    for    crime,    while     his     foul 
blood  may  boil 
Or  creep  within   his   veins  at  will?  — 
Arise, 
And  to   high  Justice   make    her   chosen 
sacrifice." 


"  What  do  ye  seek?    what   fear  ye,': 
then  I  cried, 
Suddenly   starting  forth,    "that   ye 
should  shed 
The     blood    of    Othman?  —  if     your 
hearts  are  tried 
In  the  true   love   of   freedom,  cease 

to  dread 
This    one    poor    lonely   man  —  be- 
neath Heaven  spread 
In  purest   light  above  us  all,  through 
Earth, 
Maternal  Earth,  who  doth  her  sweet 
smiles  shed 
For  all,  —  let  him  go  free;   until  the 
worth 
Of    human    nature    win    from    these    a 
second  birth. 


"  What  call  ye  justice  ?     Is  there  one 
who  ne'er 
In  secret  thought  has  wisht  another's 
ill?  — 
Are   ye    all    pure?     Let    those    stand 
forth  who  hear 
And  tremble  not.     Shall  they  insult 

and  kill, 
If    such  they  be?  their    mild    eyes 
can  they  fill 
With  the  false  anger  of  the  hypocrite  ? 
Alas,   such    were    not    pure, — the 
chastened  will 
Of  virtue  sees  that  justice  is  the  light 
Of   love,    and   not  revenge  and  terror 
and  despite." 


The    murmur    of    the    people,    slowly 
dying, 
Paused  as  I  spake,  then   those  who 
near  me  were 
Cast  gentle  looks  where  the  lone  man 
was  lying 
Shrouding  his  head,  which  now  that 

infant  fair 
Claspt    on    her    lap    in    silence;  — 
through  the  air 
Sobs    were    then     heard,    and     many 
kist  my  feet 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


I(»: 


In   pity's   madness,  and  to  the   de- 
spair 
Of  him  whom  late  they  curst  a  solace 
sweet 
His  very  victims  brought  —  soft  looks 
and  speeches  meet. 

xxxvi. 

Then  to  a  home  for  his  repose  assigned, 
Accompanied  by   the    still   throng, 
he  went 
In  silence,  where,  to  soothe  his  rank- 
ling mind, 
Some  likeness  of  his  ancient  state 

was  lent; 
And,  if  his  heart  could  have  been 
innocent 
As  those  who  pardoned  him,  he  might 
have  ended 
His  days  in  peace;   but  his  straight 
lips  were  bent, 
Men  said,  into    a   smile  which    guile 
portended, 
A  sight  with  which  that  child  like  hope 
with  fear  was  blended. 


'T  was  midnight  now,  the  eve  of  that 
great  day 
Whereon  the  many  nations  at  whose 
call 
The  chains  of  earth  like  mist  melted 
away 
Decreed  to  hold  a  sacred  Festival, 
A  rite  to  attest  the  equality  of  all 
Who    live.     So    to    their    homes,    to 
dream  or  wake, 
All  went.     The  sleepless  silence  did 
recall 
Laone    to    my    thoughts,    with  hopes 
that  make 
The  flood  recede  from  which  their  thirst 
they  seek  to  slake. 


The  dawn  flowed  forth,  and  from  its 
purple  fountains 
I  drank    those    hopes  which   make 
the  spirit  quail, 


As  to    the    plain    between    the    misty 
mountains 
And  the  great  City,  with   a   counte- 
nance pale, 
I    went: — it    was    a    sight    which 
might  avail 
To    make  men  weep    exulting    tears, 
for  whom 
Now   first   from   human   power  the 
reverent  veil 
Was    torn,    to    see     Earth    from     her 
general  womb 
Pour    forth    her    swarming    sons    to    a 
fraternal  doom; 

xxxix. 

To  see  far  glancing  in  the  misty  morn- 
ing 
The  signs  of  that  innumerable  host, 
To  hear  one  sound  of  many  made,  the 
warning 
Of    Earth   to  Heaven    from  its  free 

children  tost; 
While  the  eternal  hills,  and  the  sea 
lost 
In  wavering    light,  and,  starring  the 
blue  sky, 
The  City's   myriad  spires  of    gold, 
almost 
With  human  joy  made  mute  society  — 
Its  witnesses  with  men  who  must  here-* 
after  be; 


To  see,  like  some  vast  island  from  the 
ocean, 
The  Altar  of  the  Federation  rear 
Its  pile  i'  the  midst,  —  a  work  which 
the  devotion 
Of  millions    in    one    night    created 

there, 
Sudden  as  when  the  moonrise  makes 
appear 
Strange  clouds  in  the  east;    a  marble 
pyramid 
Distinct    with    steps:    that    mighty 
shape  did  wear 
The  light  of   genius;   its  still  shadow 
hid 
Far  ships:  to  know  its  height  the  morn 
ing  mists  forbid  ! 


1 66 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


To    hear    the    restless  multitudes    for- 
ever 
Around  the  base  of  that  great  Altar 
flow, 
As  on  some  mountain-islet  burst  and 
shiver 
Atlantic  waves;    and  solemnly  and 

slow, 
As  the  wind  bore  that  tumult  to  and 
fro, 
To  feel  the   dreamlike  music,    which 
did  swim 
Like  beams  through  floating  clouds 
on  waves  below, 
Falling  in  pauses  from  that  Altar  dim, 
As  silver-sounding  tongues  breathed  an 
aerial  hymn. 


To  hear,  to  see,  to   live,  was  on  that 
morn 
Lethean     joy !    so  ■  that    all     those 
assembled 
Cast  off  their    memories   of    the    past 
outworn; 
Two  only  bosoms   with    their  own 

life  trembled, 
And   mine  was  one  —  and   we  had 
both  dissembled; 
So  with  a  beating  heart   I  went,  and 
one 
Who,  having  much,  covets  yet  more, 
resembled,  — 
A  lost  and  dear  possession,  which  not 
won, 
He  walks  in   lonely  gloom  beneath  the 
noonday  sun. 


To   the    great    Pyramid    I    came :    its 

stair 
With   female  choirs  was  thronged, 

the  loveliest 
Among    the    free,     grouped    with    its 

sculptures  rare; 
As    I     approached,    the    morning's 

golden  mist, 
Which     now    the     wonder-stricken 

breezes  kist 


With    their  cold    lips,    fled,    and   the 
summit  shone 
Like  Athos  seen  from  Samothracia, 
drest 
In  earliest  light,  by  vintagers,  and  one 
Sate   there,   a   female    Shape    upon  an 
ivory  throne : 


A  Form  most  like  the  imagined  habi- 
tant 
Of   silver   exhalations   sprung  from 
dawn, 
By  winds  which  feed  on  sunrise  woven, 
to  enchant 
The  faiths  of  men :   all  mortal  eyes 

were  drawn  — 
As     famished       mariners,      through 
strange  seas  gone, 
Gaze  on  a  burning  watch-tower  —  by 
the  light 
Of  those  divinest  lineaments.    Alone 
With  thoughts  which  none  could  share, 
from  that  fair  sight 
I  turned  in  sickness,  for  a  veil  shrouded 
her  countenance  bright. 


And   neither  did  I  hear  the  acclama- 
tions 
Which,  from  brief  silence  bursting, 
filled  the  air 
With     her    strange   name    and    mine, 
from  all  the  nations 
Which    we,   they  said,    in  strength 

had  gathered  there 
From  the  sleep  of  bondage;    nor  the 
vision  fair 
Of    that    bright    pageantry  beheld,  — 
but  blind 
And  silent  as  a  breathing  corpse  did 
fare, 
Leaning  upon   my  friend,  till,   like  a 
wind 
To  fevered  cheeks,  a  voice  flowed  o'er 
my  troubled  mind. 


Like  music  of  some  minstrel  heavenly- 
gifted 
To   one   whom   fiends    enthral,    this 
voice  to  me; 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


167 


Scarce  did  I  wish  her  veil  to  be  up- 

From both  the  hearts  whose  pulse  in  joy 

lifted, 

now  beat  together. 

I  was  so  calm  and  joyous.  —  I  could 

see 

XLIX. 

The   platform  where  we  stood,  the 

statues  three 

"If    our  own  will  as   others'  law  we 

Which    kept    their    marble    watch    on 

bind, 

that  high  shrine, 

If  the  foul  worship  trampled  here 

The  multitudes,  the  mountains,  and 

we  fear, 

the  sea; 

If  as  ourselves  we  cease  to  love  our 

As,   when    eclipse    hath    past,    things 

kind!  "  — 

sudden  shine 

She  paused,  and  pointed  upwards  — 

To  men's  astonished  eyes  most  clear  and 

sculptured  there 

crystalline. 

Three     shapes    around     her    ivory 

throne  appear : 

XLVII. 

One  was  a  Giant,  like  a  child  asleep 

On    a    loose    rock,     whose     grasp 

At  fi>  it  Laone  spoke  most  tremulously : 

crusht,  as  it  were 

But    soon    her    voice    the    calmness 

In  dream,   sceptres  and  crowns;    and 

which  it  shed 

one  did  keep 

Gathered,  and — "Thou   art  whom  I 

Its  watchful  eyes  in  doubt  whether  to 

sought  to  see, 

smile  or  weep; 

And  thou  art  our  first  votary  here," 

she  said. 

L. 

"  I  had  a  dear  friend  once,  but  he  is 

dead  !  — 

A  Woman   sitting   on   the  sculptured 

And  of    all    those  on  the  wide  earth 

disk 

who  breathe, 

Of   the   broad    earth,    and    feeding 

Thou  dost  resemble  him  alone.  —  I 

from  one  breast 

spread 

A  human  babe  and  a  young  basilisk; 

This  veil   between   us  two,  that  thou 

Her  looks  were  sweet  as  Heaven's 

beneath 

when  loveliest 

Shouldst  image  one  who  may  have  been 

In   autumn  eves.     The  third  Image 

long  lost  in  death. 

was  drest 

In    white    wings    swift    as   clouds    in 

XLVIII. 

winter  skies; 

Beneath  his  feet,  'mongst  ghastliest 

"  For  this  wilt  thou  not  henceforth 

forms,  represt 

pardon  me? 

Lay    Faith,    an    obscene    worm,    who 

Yes,   but  those    joys   which  silence 

sought  to  rise, 

well  requite 

While  calmly  on  the  Sun  he  turned  his 

Forbid  reply;    why  men  have  chosen 

diamond  eyes. 

me 
To  be  the  Priestess  of    this  holiest 

rite 
I  scarcely  know,  but  that  the  floods 

of  light 
Which  flow  over  the  world  have  borne 

me  hither 
To  meet  thee,  long  most  dear;    and 

now  unite 
Thine  hand  with    mine,   and  may  all 

comfort  wither 


Beside  that  Image  then  I  sate,  while 
she 
Stood   mid  the  throngs  which  ever 
ebbed  and  flowed, 
Like    light   amid  the  shadows  of    the 
sea 
Cast  from  one  cloudless  star,  and  on 
the  crowd 


1 63 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


That    touch  which    none  who  feels 
forgets  bestowed; 
And  whilst  the  sun  returned  the  stead- 
fast gaze 
Of  the  great  Image,  as  o'er  Heaven 
it  glode, 
That  rite  had   place;   it  ceased  when 
sunset's  blaze 
Burned  o'er  the  isles.     All  stood  in  joy 
and  deep  amaze, 
When  in  the  silence  of  all  spirits  there 
Laone's  voice  was   felt,   and  through 
the  air 
Her  thrilling  gestures  spoke,  most  elo- 
quently fair. 


"Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset!  swift 

and  strong 
As   new-fledged  eagles,  beautiful   and 

young, 
That  float  among  the  blinding  beams 
of  morning: 
And    underneath    thy    feet    writhe 

Faith  and  Folly, 
Custom  and  Hell  and  mortal  Melan- 
choly. — 
Hark !    the    Earth    starts  to  hear  the 
mighty  warning 
Of  thy  voice  sublime  and  holy; 
Its  free  spirits  here  assembled, 
See  thee,  feel  thee,  know  thee 
now,— 
To    thy   voice    their    hearts    have 
trembled, 
Like  ten  thousand  clouds  which 
flow 
With  one  wide  wind  as  it  flies  ! 
Wisdom  !   thy  irresistible  children  rise 
To  hail   thee;    and   the    elements  they 
chain, 
And  their  own  will,  to  swell  the  glory  of 
thy  train. 


"  O  Spirit  vast  and  deep  as  Night  and 

Heaven  ! 
Mother   and  soul    of    all    to   which    is 

given 
The  light  of  life,  the  loveliness  of  being, 
Lo  !   thou  dost  reascend  the  human 

heart. 


Thy  throne  of   power,  almighty   as 
thou  wert 
In  dreams  of  Poets  old  grown  pale  by 
seeing 

The  shade   of    thee: — now  mil- 
lions start 
To    feel    thy    lightnings    through 
them  burning : 
Nature,    or   God,    or   Love,   or 
Pleasure, 
Or  Sympathy,  the  sad  tears  turn- 

To   mutual   smiles,    a   drainless 
treasure, 
Descends  amidst  us; — Scorn  and 
Hate, 
Revenge    and    Selfishness,    are    deso- 
late— 
A  hundred   nations   swear    that    there 
shall  be 
Pity  and  Peace  and    Love   among   the 
good  and  free  ! 


3- 


"  Eldest  of  things,  divine  Equality  ! 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  but  the  slaves 

of  thee, 
The    Angels   of    thy   sway,    who   pour 
around  thee 
Treasures  from  all  the  cells  of  human 

thought 
And    from   the   stars   and    from   the 
ocean  brought, 
And  the  last  living  heart  whose  beat- 
ings bound  thee : 
The    powerful    and   the    wise   had 

sought 
Thy   coming;     thou,   in   light    de- 
scending 
O'er    the    wide    land    which    is 
thine  own, 
Like   the   Spring  whose   breath   is 
blending 
All  blasts  of  fragrance  into  one, 
Comest  upon  the  paths  of  men  ! 
Earth  bares  her  general  bosom  to  thy 

ken, 
And    all    her    children    here    in    glory 
meet 
To  feed  upon  thy  smiles,  and  clasp  thy 
sacred  feet. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


169 


"  My    brethren,    we    are    free !       The 

plains  and  mountains, 
The    gray  sea-shore,   the   forests,   and 

the  fountains, 
Are  haunts  of  happiest  dwellers;    man 
and  woman, 
Their  common  bondage  burst,  may 

freely  borrow 
From  lawless  love  a  solace  for  their 
sorrow  — 
For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we 
are  human. 
A  stormy   night's    serenest    mor- 
row— 
Whose  showers  are  Pity's  gentle 
tears, 
Whose  clouds  are  smiles  of  those 
that  die 
Like    infants    without     hopes    or 
fears, 
And  whose  beams  are  joys  that 
lie 
In    blended    hearts  —  now    holds 
dominion : 
The  dawn  of  mind,  which,  upwards  on 

a  pinion 
Borne  swift   as  sun-rise,  far  illumines 
space, 
And  clasps  this  barren  world  in  its  own 
brirht  embrace  ! 


5-. 

"My    brethren,    we    are    free!       The 

fruits  are  glowing 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  the  night-winds 

are  flowing 
O'er  the  ripe  corn,  the  birds  and  beasts 
are  dreaming  — 
Never   again   may  blood   of   bird   or 

beast 
Stain   with   its   venomous   stream    a 
human  feast, 
To  the  pure  skies  in  accusation  steam- 
ing; 
Avenging      poisons     shall      have 

ceased 
To  feed  disease  and  fear  and  mad- 
ness ; 
The  dwellers  of  the  earth   and 
air 


Shall  throng  around  our  steps  in 
gladness, 
Seeking    their    food    or    refuge 
there. 
Our    toil    from    thought    all    glorious 

forms  shall  cull, 
To  make  this  Earth,  our  home,  more 

beautiful; 
And  Science,  and  her  sister  Poesy, 
Shall  clothe  in  light  the  fields  and  cities 
of  the  free  ! 


6. 


"  Victory,     victory    to    the    prostrate 

nations  ! 
Bear  witness,  Night,  and  ye  mute  Con- 
stellations 
Who  gaze  on  us  from  your  crystalline 
cars  ! 
Thoughts    have    gone    forth    whose 

powers  can  sleep  no  more  ! 
Victory  !   Victory  !   Earth's  remotest 
shore, 
Regions  which  groan  beneath  the  ant- 
arctic stars, 
The   green   lands   cradled   in   the 

roar 
Of    western    waves,    and    wilder- 
nesses 
Peopled  and  vast  which  skirt  the 
oceans 
Where  Morning  dyes  her  golden 
tresses, 
Shall    soon    partake    our    high 
emotions : 
Kings  shall  turn   pale  !   Almighty 
Fear, 
The    Fiend-God,    when    our    charmed 

name  he  hear, 
Shall   fade  like  shadow  from  his  thou- 
sand fanes, 
While  Truth,  with  Joy  enthroned,  o'er 
his  lost  empire  reigns!  " 


1. II. 


Ere  she  had  ceased,  the  mists  of  night, 

entwining 
Their    dim    woof,    floated    o'er    the 

infinite  throng: 
She,  like  a  spirit  through  the  darkness 

shining, 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


In  tones  whose  sweetness  silence  did 

prolong 
As  if  to  lingering  winds  they  did  be- 
long, 
Poured  forth  her  inmost  soul:   a  pas- 
sionate speech 
With  wild  and  thrilling  pauses  woven 
among, 
Which  whoso  heard  was  mute,  for  it 
could  teach 
To    rapture   like   her  own  all   listening 
hearts  to  reach. 


Her  voice  was    as  a  mountain-stream 
which  sweeps 
The  withered    leaves  of    autumn  to 
the  lake, 
And    in    some    deep  and    narrow  bay 
then  sleeps 
In    the    shadow    of    the    shores;    as 

dead  leaves  wake, 
Under  the  wave,  in  flowers  and  herbs 
which  make 
Those    green    depths    beautiful    when 
skies  are  blue, 
The  multitude  so  moveless  did  par- 
take 
Such  living  change,  and  kindling  mur- 
murs flew 
As  o'er  that  speechless  calm  delight  and 
wonder  grew. 


Over  the  plain  the  throngs  were  scat- 
tered then 
In    groups  around    the   fires,   which 
from  the  sea 
Even  to  the  gorge  of  the  first  moun- 
tain-glen 
Blazed  wide  and  far:  the  banquet  of 

the  free 
Was   spread   beneath   many   a   dark 
cypress-tree, 
Beneath   whose     spires   which   swayed 
in  the  red  flame 
Reclining  as  they  ate,  of  Liberty 
And    Hope   and  Justice    and    Laone's 
name 
Earth's  children   did   a  woof  of  happy 
converse    frame. 


Their    feast    was    such    as    Earth    the 
general  mother 
Pours  from  her  fairest  bosom,  when 
she  smiles 
In  the  embrace  of  Autumn;   to  each 
other 
As   when   some   parent   fondly  rec- 
onciles 
Her    warring    children,    she    their 
wrath  beguiles 
With  her  own  sustenance ;    they  relent- 
ing weep :  — 
Such  was  this  Festival,  which,  from 
their  isles 
And  continents  and  winds  and  ocean's 
deep, 
All  shapes  might  throng  to  share  that 
fly  or  walk  or  creep,  — 


Might  share  in  peace  and  innocence: 
for  gore 
Or  poison  none  this  festal  did  pol- 
lute, 
But,   piled    on    high,   an    overflowing 
store 
Of  pomegranates  and  citrons,  fairest 

fruit, 
Melons  and  dates  and  figs,  and  many 
a  root 
Sweet    and    sustaining,     and     bright 
grapes  ere  yet 
Accursed  fire  their  mild  juice  could 
transmute 
Into  a  mortal  bane,  and  brown  corn  set 
In    baskets;    with    pure    streams    their 
thirsting  lips  they  wet. 


Laone  had  descended  from  the  shrine, 

And  every  deepest  look  and   holiest 

mind 

Fed   on  her   form,  though  now  those 

tones  divine 

Were  silent,   as  she  past;    she  did 

unwind 
Her  veil,  as  with  the  crowds  of  her 
own  kind 
She    mixt;    some    impulse    made    my 
heart  refrain 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


17' 


From  seeking  her  that  night,  so  I 
reclined 
Amidst  a  group,  where  on  the  utmost 
plain 
A   festal  watchfire   burned   beside    the 
dusky  main. 

LVIII. 

And   joyous   was  our  feast;    pathetic 
talk, 
And    wit,    and    harmony    of   choral 
strains, 
While  far  Orion  o'er  the  waves    did 
walk 
That  flow  among  the  isles,  held  us 

in  chains 
Of  sweet  captivity  which  none  dis- 
dains 
Who  feels:   but,  when  his  zone  grew 
dim  in  mist 
Which  clothes  the  Ocean's  bosom, 
o'er  the  plains 
The    multitudes    went    homeward    to 
their  rest, 
Which  that  delightful  day  with  its  own 
shadow  blest. 


CANTO   VI. 
I. 

Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering 
sea, 
Weaving  swift    language    from  im- 
passioned themes, 
With  that  dear  friend  I  lingered  who 
to  me 
So  late  had  been  restored,  beneath 

the  gleams 
Of  the  silver  stars  ;    and  ever  in  soft 
dreams 
Of  future  love  and  peace  sweet  con- 
verse lapt 
Our  willing  fancies,   till    the   pallid 
beams 
Of  the  last  watch-fire  fell,  and  dark- 
ness wrapt 
The  waves,    and  each  bright   chain  of 
floating  fire  was  snapt ; 


And  till  we  came  even  to  the  City's 
wall 
And   the   great  gate.     Then,    none 
knew  whence  or  why, 
Disquiet  on  the  multitudes  did  fall : 
And  first,  one  pale  and  breathless 

passed  us  by, 
And    stared  and  spoke   not ;    then 
with  piercing  cry 
A  troop  of  wild-eyed  women,  by  the 
shrieks 
Of  their  own  terror  driven,  —  tumul- 
tously 
Hither  and  thither  hurrying  with  pale 
cheeks, 
Each  one  from  fear  unknown  a  sudden 
refuge  seeks  — 

in. 

Then,  rallying  cries  of  treason  and  of 
danger 
Resounded:    and  —  "They    come! 
to  arms  !  to  arms  ! 
The  Tyrant  is   amongst   us,    and   the 
stranger 
Comes  to  enslave  us  in  his  name  ! 

to  arms  !  ' ' 
In  vain:   for  Panic,  the  pale  fiend 
who  charms 
Strength  to  forswear  her  right,  those 
millions  swept 
Like   waves   before   the   tempest  — 
these  alarms 
Came  to  me,  as  to  know  their  cause 
I  leapt 
On  the  gate's  turret,   and   in  rage   and 
grief  and  scorn  I  wept ! 


For  to  the  north  I  saw  the  town  on 

fire, 
And    its    red    light    made    morning 

pallid  now, 
Which  burst  over  wide  Asia  ;  —  louder, 

higher, 
The  yells  of  victory  and  the  screams 

of  woe 
I    heard    approach,    and    saw    the 

throng  below 


172 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Stream  through  the  gates  like  foam- 
wrought  waterfalls 
Fed  from  a  thousand  storms  —  the 
fearful  glow 
Of    bombs     flares    overhead — at    in- 
tervals 
The  red  artillery's  bolt  mangling  among 
them  falls. 

v. 

And  now  the  horsemen  come  —  and 
all  was  done 
Swifter    than    I     have    spoken  — ■  I 
beheld 
Their  red  swords  flash  in  the  unrisen 
sun. 
I    rusht    among    the    rout,  to    have 

repelled 
That    miserable    flight,  —  one   mo- 
ment quelled 
By  voice  and  looks  and  eloquent   de- 
spair, 
As    if     reproach     from     their     own 
hearts  withheld 
Their    steps,    they    stood  ;    but    soon 
came  pouring  there 
New  multitudes,   and  did  those   rallied 
bands  o'erbear. 

VI. 

I  strove,  as,  drifted  on  some  cataract 
By  irresistible  streams,  some  wretch 
might  strive 
Who   hears    its    fatal    roar :    the    files 
compact 
Whelmed    me,    and    from   the    gate 

availed  to  drive 
With  quickening    impulse,  as    each 
bolt  did  rive 
Their  ranks  with  bloodier  chasm  :    into 
the  plain 
Disgorged  at    length   the  dead   and 
the  alive, 
In  one  dread  mass,  were   parted,  and 
the  stain 
Of  blood  from  mortal  steel  fell  o'er  the 
fields  like  rain. 


For    now    the    despot's    bloodhounds, 
with  their  prey 


Unarmed  and    unaware,   were    gor- 
ging deep 
Their    gluttony    of    death;     the    loose 
array 
Of   horsemen    o'er     the    wide  fields 

murdering  sweep, 
And    with    loud    laughter   for    their 
tyrant  reap 
A  harvest  sown  with  other  hopes,  the 
while, 
Far  overhead,  ships  from  Propontis 
keep 
A    killing    rain    of    fire: — when    the 
waves  smile, 
As  sudden  earthquakes  light  many  a  vol- 
cano-isle. 


Thus    sudden,    unexpected    feast    was 
^  spread 

For  the  carrion-fowls  of  Heaven.  — 
I  saw  the  sight  — 
I  moved  —  I  lived  —  as  o'er  the  heaps 
of  dead, 
Whose    stony    eyes    glared    in    the 

morning  light, 
I    trod; — to     me     there     came     no 
thought  of  flight, 
But   with  loud   cries   of    scorn,  which 
whoso  heard 
That  dreaded  death  felt  in  his  veins 
the  might 
Of  virtuous  shame  return,  the  crowd  I 
stirred, 
And  desperation's  hope  in  many  hearts 
recurred. 


A   band   of  brothers   gathering   round 
me  made, 
Although  unarmed,  a  steadfast  front, 
and,  still 
Retreating,   with   stern   looks  beneath 
the  shade 
Of  gathering  eyebrows,  did  the  vic- 
tors fill 
With  doubt  even  in  success:    delib- 
erate will 
Inspired  our  growing  troops;  not  over- 
thrown, 
It  gained  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hill, 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


17; 


And    ever    still    our    comrades    were 
hewn  down, 
And  their  defenceless  limbs  beneath  our 
footsteps  strown. 


Immovably  we  stood  —  in  joy  I  found 

Beside  me  then,  firm  as  a  giant  pine 

Among    the    mountain-vapors    driven 

around, 

The    old  man  whom  I  loved  —  his 

eyes  divine 
With   a    mild  look  of    courage    an- 
swered mine; 
And   my  young  friend  was  near,  and 
ardently 
His  hand  grasped  mine  a  moment ;  — 
now  the  line 
Of  war  extended  to  our  rallying  cry 
As  myriads  flockt  in  love  and  brother- 
hood to  die. 


For  ever  while  the  sun  was  climbing 
Heaven 
The  horseman  hewed  our  unarmed 
myriads  down 
Safely,     though,    when     by    thirst     of 
carnage  driven 
Too  near,  those  slaves  were  swiftly 

overthrown 
By   hundreds   leaping   on   them :  — 
flesh  and  bone 
Soon  made  our  ghastly  ramparts;  then 
the  shaft 
Of    the    artillery  from  the   sea  was 
thrown 
More     fast    and    fiery,    and    the    con- 
querors laught 
In  pride  to  hear  the  wind  our  screams 
of  torment  waft. 


For  on  one  side   alone  the  hill  gave 
shelter, 
So  vast  that  phalanx  of  unconquered 
men, 
And  there  the  living  in  the  blood  did 
welter 
Of    the    dead    and  dying,  which  in 
that  green  glen, 


Like  stifled  torrents,  made  a  plashy 
fen 
Under  the  feet  —  thus  was  the  butchery 
waged 
While  the  sun  clomb  Heaven's  east- 
ern steep:  but,  when 
It  'gan  to  sink,  a  fiercer  combat  raged, 
For  in  more  doubtful  strife  the  armies 
were  engaged. 


Within  a  cave  upon  a  hill  were  found 
A  bundle  of  rude  pikes,  the  instru- 
ment 
Of  those  who  war  but  on  their  native 
ground 
For  natural  rights:    a  shout  of  joy- 

ance, sent 
Even  from  our  hearts,  the  wide  air 
pierced  and  rent, 
As  those  few  arms  the  bravest  and  the 
best 
Seized,  and  each  sixth,  thus  armed, 
did  now  present 
A  line  which  covered  and  sustained  the 
rest, 
A  confident  phalanx  which   the  foe  on 
every  side  invest. 

XIV. 

That    onset  turned   the  foes   to   flight 
almost ; 
But    soon    they   saw    their    present 
strength,  and  knew 
That  coming  night  would  to  our  reso- 
lute host 
Bring  victory;  so,  dismounting,  close 

they  drew 
Their    glittering  files,  and  then  the 
combat  grew 
Unequal  but  most  horrible;  — and  ever 
Our  myriads,   whom  the   swift  bolt 
overthrew, 
Or  the  red  sword,  failed  like  a  moun- 
tain-river 
Which  rushes  forth  in  foam   to  sink  in 
sands  forever. 

xv. 

Sorrow  and  shame    to   see  with  their 
own  kind 


74 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Our  human  brethren  mix,  like  beasts 
of  blood, 
To  mutual  ruin,  armed  by  one  behind 
Who  sits  and  scoffs  !  —  That  friend 

so  mild  and  good, 
Who  like  its  shadow  near  my  youth 
had  stood, 
Was    stabbed! — my    old    preserver's 
hoary  hair, 
With  the  flesh  clinging  to  its  roots, 
was  strewed 
Under   my  feet !      I    lost  all    sense   or 
care, 
And  like  the  rest  I  grew  desperate  and 
unaware. 


The  battle  became  ghastlier;  —  in  the 
midst 
I  paused,  and  saw  how  ugly  and  how 
fell, 
O  Hate  !    thou  art,  even  when  thy  life 
thou  shedd'st 
For  Love.     The  ground  in  many  a 

little  dell 
Was    broken,  up    and  down  whose 
steeps  befell 
Alternate    victory    and    defeat  ;     and 
there 
The    combatants    with    rage     most 
horrible 
Strove,    and    their    eyes    started   with 
cracking  stare, 
And  impotent  their  tongues  they  lolled 
into  the  air,  — 


Flaccid  and  foamy,  like  a  mad  dog's 
hanging. 
Want,  and  Moon-madness,  and  the 
pest's  swift  Bane, 
When    its   shafts   smite,   while  yet   its 
bow  is  twanging, 
Have    each    their    mark    and    sign, 

some  ghastly  stain; 
And  this  was  thine,  O  War  !   of  hate 
and  pain 
Thou  loathed  slave.      I  saw  all  shapes 
of  death, 
And    ministered   to   many,   o'er  the 
plain 


While  carnage  in  the  sunbeam's  warmth 
did  seethe, 
Till  Twilight    o'er    the    east  wove  her 
serenest  wreath. 


The    few  who    yet    survived,  resolute 
and  firm, 
Around  me  fought.     At  the  decline 
of  day, 
Winding  above  the  mountain's  snowy 
term, 
New  banners  shone :   they  quivered 

in  the  ray 
Of  the  sun's  unseen  orb —  ere  night 
the  array 
Of    fresh    troops    hemmed  us  in  —  of 
those  brave  bands 
I  soon  survived  alone  —  and   now  I 
lay 
Vanquisht     and    faint,    the     grasp    of 
bloody  hands 
I  felt,  and  saw  on  high  the  glare  of  fall- 
ing brands, 


When    on    my   foes  a    sudden    terror 

came, 

And    they    fled,    scattering.  —  Lo  ! 

with  reinless  speed 

A  black  Tartarian  horse  of  giant  frame 

Comes  trampling  o'er  the  dead;    the 

living  bleed 
Beneath  the  hoofs  of   that  tremen- 
dous steed, 
On  which,  like  to  an  Angel,  robed  in 
white, 
Sate    one    waving    a    sword;  — the 
hosts  recede 
And  fly,  as  through  their    ranks  with 
awful  might 
Sweeps  in  the  shadow  of  eve  that  Phan- 
tom swift  and  bright. 


And  its  path  made  a  solitude.  —  I  rose 
And  markt   its  coming;    it   relaxt  its 
course 
As  it  approacht  me,  and  the  wind  that 
flows 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


175 


Through  night  bore  accents  to  mine 

ear  whose  force 
Might  create  smiles  in  death  —  the 
Tartar  horse 
Paused,  and  I  saw  the  Shape  its  might 
which  swayed, 
And  heard  her  musical  pants,  like 
the  sweet  source 
Of  waters  in  the  desert,  as  she  said, 
"Mount  with   me,    Laon,   now!" — I 
rapidly  obeyed. 


Then    "Away!     away!"     she    cried, 
and  stretcht  her  sword 
As    't  were     a    scourge     over     the 
courser's    head, 
And    lightly    shook    the    reins.  —  We 
spake  no  word, 
But    like  the  vapor  of  the  tempest 

fled 
Over  the  plain;    her  dark  hair  was 
dispread 
Like  the  pine's  locks  upon  the  linger- 
ing blast; 
Over  mine  eyes  its  shadowy  strings 
it  spread 
Fitfully,  and  the  hills  and  streams  fled 
fast, 
As    o'er    their    glimmering    forms    the 
steed's  broad  shadow  past. 


And  his  hoofs  ground  the  rocks  to  fire 
and  dust, 
His  strong  sides  made  the  torrents 
rise  in  spray, 
And   turbulence,  as  of  a  whirlwind's 
gust, 
Surrounded    us; — and    still    away! 

away  ! 
Through  the  desert  night  we  sped, 
while  she  alway 
Gazed  on  a  mountain  which  we  neared, 
whose  crest, 
Crowned  with  a  marble  ruin,  in  the 
ray 
Of    the  obscure   stars   gleamed; — its 
rugged  breast 
The  steed    strained    up,    and    then    his 
impulse  did  arrest. 


A    rocky    hill    which     overhung    the 
ocean :  — 
From  that  lone  ruin,  when  the  steed 
that  panted 
Paused,  might  be  heard  the  murmur 
of  the  motion 
Of    waters,     as    in     spots     forever 

haunted 
By  the   choicest  winds  of   Heaven, 
which  are  enchanted 
To  music  by  the  wand  ot  Solitude, 
That  wizard  wild,  and  the  far  tents 
implanted 
Upon  the  plain  be  seen  by  those  who 
stood 
Thence     marking     the    dark    shore    of 
ocean's  curved  flood. 


One   moment   these   were   heard    and 
seen  —  another 
Past;    and  the  two  who  stood  be- 
neath that  night 
Each   only   heard   or   saw   or  felt  the 
other; 
As    from    the    lofty    steed    she    did 

alight, 
Cythna  (for,   from   the  eyes  whose 
deepest  light 
Of  love  and  sadness  made  my  lips  feel 
pale 
With    influence    strange  of    mourn- 
fullest  delight, 
My  own   sweet  Cythna  looked)  with 
joy  did  quail, 
And  felt  her  strength  in  tears  of  human 
weakness  fail. 

XXV. 

And   for  a  space  in  my  embrace  she 
rested, 

Her  head  on  my  unquiet  heart  repos- 
ing, 
While  my  faint  arms  her  languid  frame 
invested : 

At  length  she  looked  on  me,  and, 
half  unclosing 

Her  tremulous  lips,  said:    "  Friend, 
thy  bands  were  losing 


176 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


The  battle,  as  I  stood  before  the  King 
In  bonds.      I  burst  them  then,  and, 
swiftly  choosing 
The  time,  did  seize  a  Tartar's  sword, 
and  spring 
Upon  his  horse,  and,  swift  as   on  the 
whirlwind's  wing, 


"  Have  thou  and  I  been  borne  beyond 
pursuer, 
And  we  are  here."  — Then,  turning 
to  the  steed, 
She    pressed  the   white   moon  on  his 
front  with  pure 
And  rose-like  lips,  and  many  a  fra- 
grant weed 
From  the   green  ruin  plucked  that 
he  might  feed;  — 
But  I   to  a  stone    seat  that     Maiden 
led, 
And   kissing   her    fair    eyes,    said, 
"  Thou  hast  need 
Of  rest,"  and  I  heapt  up  the  courser's 
bed 
In  a  green  mossy  nook,  with  mountain- 
flowers  dispread. 


Within    that   ruin,  where    a  shattered 
portal 
Looks   to    the   eastern   stars,    aban- 
doned now 
By  man,   to  be    the    home  of    things 
immortal, 
Memories  like  awful  ghosts  which 

come  and  go, 
And     must     inherit     all     he     builds 
below, 
When  he  is  gone,  a  hall  stood;  o'er 
whose  roof 
Fair   clinging  weeds   with   ivy  pale 
did  grow, 
Clasping  its  gray  rents  with  a  verdur- 
ous woof, 
A  hanging  dome  of    leaves,  a   canopy 
moon-proof. 


The     autumnal     winds,     as     if     spell- 
bound, had  made 


A  natural  couch   of   leaves   in  that 
recess, 
Which  seasons    none    disturbed,   but; 
in  the  shade 
Of    flowering   parasites,  did  Spring 

love  to  dress 
With  their  sweet  blooms  the  wintry 
loneliness 
Of  those  dead  leaves,  shedding  their 
stars  whene'er 
The  wandering  wind  her  nurslings 
might  caress; 
Whose  intertwining  fingers  ever  there 
Made  music  wild  and  soft  that  filled  the 
listening  air. 

XXIX. 

We  know  not  where  we  go,  or  what 
sweet  dream 
May     pilot     us     through     caverns 
strange  and  fair 
Of  far  and  pathless  passion,  while  the 
stream 
Of  life  our  bark  doth  on  its  whirl- 
pools bear, 
Spreading   swift   wings   as    sails    to 
the  dim  air : 
Nor  should  we  seek  to  know,  so  the 
devotion 
Of    love    and    gentle    thoughts    be 
heard  still  there 
Louder   and    louder   from  the  utmost 
ocean 
Of  universal  life,  attuning  its  commotion. 


To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure  !     Ob- 
livion wrapt 
Our    spirits,    and    the    fearful    over- 
throw 
Of    public   hope  was  from  our  being 
snapt, 
Though   linked  years  had  bound  it 

there;    for  now 
A    power,    a   thirst,    a   knowledge, 
which  below 
All    thoughts,   like    light    beyond   the 
atmosphere, 
Clothing  its  clouds  with  grace,  doth 
ever  flow, 
Came    on   us,    as   we    sate   in   silence 
there, 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


177 


Beneath  the  golden  stars  of  the  clear 
azure  air :  — 


In  silence  which  doth  follow  talk  that 
causes 
The    baffled    heart    to    speak    with 
sighs  and  tears, 
When    wildering    passion    swalloweth 
up  the  pauses 
Of       inexpressive      speech :  —  the 

youthful  years 
Which     we     together     past,     their 
hopes  and  fears, 
The  blood  itself  which  ran  within  our 
frames, 
That  likeness  of  the  features  which 
endears 
The   thoughts  exprest    by    them,    our 
very  names, 
And  all  the  winged  hours  which  speech- 
less memory  claims, 


Had  found   a   voice: — and,  ere  that 
voice  did  pass, 
The    night    grew    damp    and    dim, 
and,  through  a  rent 
Of  the  ruin  where  we  sate,  from  the 
morass, 
A  wandering  Meteor  by  some  wild 

wind  sent, 
Hung  high   in  the  green  dome,  to 
which  it  lent 
A  faint  and   pallid   lustre;    while  the 
song 
Of    blasts,    in  which    its    blue  hair 
quivering  bent, 
Strewed  strangest  sounds  the  moving 
leaves  among; 
A  wondrous   light,   the   sound    as  of    a 
spirit's  tongue. 


The    Meteor    showed    the   leaves    on 

which  we  sate, 
And    Cythna's    glowing   arms,    and 

the  thick  ties 
Of    her    soft    hair    which    bent    with 

gathered  weight 


My  neck  near   hers,  her   dark   and 

deepening  eyes, 
Which,   as   twin    phantoms   of    one 
star  that  lies 
O'er  a  dim  well  move  though  the  star 
reposes, 
Swam    in     our     mute     and    liquid 
ecstasies, 
Her    marble    brow,    and    eager    lips, 
like  roses, 
With  their  own  fragrance  pale,  which 
Spring  but  half  uncloses. 


The  Meteor  to  its  far  morass  returned; 
The    beating    of  our  veins  one    in- 
terval 
Made  still;  and  then  I  felt  the  blood 
that  burned 
Within  her  frame  mingle  with  mine, 

and  fall 
Around    my   heart    like    fire;    and 
over  all 
A  mist  was  spread,  the  sickness  of  a 
deep 
And    speechless   swoon    of    joy,    as 
might  befal 
Two  disunited  spirits  when  they  leap 
In  union  from  this  earth's  obscure  and 
fading  sleep. 

XXXV. 

Was  it  one  moment   that  confounded 

thus 

All   thought,  all  sense,  all  feeling, 

into  one 

Unutterable  power,  which  shielded  us 

Even    from    our  own     cold     looks, 

when  we  had  gone 
Into  a  wide  and  wild  oblivion 
Of  tumult  and  of  tenderness?  or  now 
Had  ages,  such  as  make  the  moon 
and  sun, 
The      seasons     and     mankind,    their 
changes  know, 
Left   fear  and   time   unfelt  by  us  alone 
below? 

XXXVI. 

I  know  not.     What  are  kisses  whose 
fire  clasps 


t78 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


The  failing  heart  in  languishment, 
or  limb 
Twined    within    limb?     or    the    quick 
dying  gasps 
Of  the  life  meeting,  when  the  faint 

eyes  swim 
Through    tears     of     a    wide     mist 
boundless  and  dim, 
In  one  caress?     What    is    the    strong 
control 
Which   leads   the    heart    that    dizzy 
steep  to  climb 
Where  far  over  the  world  those  vapors 
roll 
Which  blend  two  restless  frames  in  one 
reposing  soul? 


It    is    the    shadow    which    doth    float 

unseen, 

But  not  unfelt,  o'er  blind  mortality, 

Whose  divine  darkness  fled  not  from 

that  green 

And    lone    recess,    where    lapt    in 

peace  did  lie 
Our    linked    frames,    till    from    the 
changing  sky 
That  night  and  still  another  day  had 
fled; 
And    then    I    saw    and    felt.       The 
moon  was  high, 
And    clouds,   as    of    a  coming    storm, 
were  spread 
Under  its  orb,  —  loud  winds  were  gath- 
ering overhead. 


Cythna's   sweet   lips   seemed   lurid  in 
the  moon, 
Her    fairest    limbs    with    the    night 
wind  were  chill, 
And  her  dark  tresses  were  all  loosely 
strewn 
O'er  her  pale  bosom: — all   within 

was  still, 
And    the    sweet    peace    of     joy  did 
almost  fill 
The  depth  of  her  unfathomable  look; — - 
And    we    sate  calmly,   though    that 
rocky  hill 
The  waves  contending   in  its  caverns 


For  they  foreknew  the   storm,  and  the 
gray  ruin  shook. 

xxxix. 

There  we  unheeding  sate,  in  the  com- 
munion 
Of  interchanged  vows  which,  with 
a  rite 
Of    faith    most    sweet     and     sacred, 
stampt  our  union.  — 
Few  were    the  living  hearts  which 

could  unite 
Like    ours,    or    celebrate   a  bridal- 
night 
With  such  close  sympathies;    for  they 
had  sprung 
From   linked    youth,   and  from  the 
gentle  might 
Of  earliest  love,  delayed  and  cherisht 
long, 
Which  common  hopes  and  fears  made, 
like  a  tempest,  strong. 


XL. 


And  such  is  Nature'sTaw  divine  that 
those 
Who  grow  together  cannot  choose 
but  love, 
If  faith  or  custom  do  not  interpose, 
Or  common   slavery   mar   what  else 

might  move 
All    gentlest    thoughts;     as,   in    the 
sacred  grove 
Which  shades  the  springs  of  Ethiopian 
Nile, 
That  living  tree  which,  if  the  arrowy 
dove 
Strike  with  her  shadow,  shrinks  in  fear 
awhile, 
But  its  own  kindred  leaves  clasps  while 
the  sunbeams  smile, 


And    clings    to    them  when    darkness 
may  dissever 
The     close    caresses    of     all     duller 
plants 
Which   bloom    on    the  wide  earth  ;  — 
thus  we  forever 
Were  linkt,   for    love  had   nurst  us 
in  the  haunts 


THE  REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


79 


Where    knowledge    from    its  secret 
source  enchants 
Young  hearts  with  the   fresh  music  of 
its  springing, 
Ere    yet    its    gathered    flood    feeds 
human  wants, 
As  the  great  Nile  feeds  Egypt;    ever 
flinging 
Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er 
its  waves  are  swinging. 


The    tones    of    Cythna's    voice    like 
echoes  were 
Of    those    far    murmuring   streams; 
they  rose  and  fell, 
Mixt    with    mine    own    in    the    tem- 
pestuous air,  — 
And  so  we  sate,  until  our  talk  befel 
Of  the  late  ruin,  swift  and  horrible, 
And  how  those  seeds  of   hope  might 
yet  be  sown 
Whose  fruit  is  evil's  mortal  poison. 
Well 
For  us  this  ruin   made  a  watch-tower 
lone, 
But  Cythna's  eyes  looked  faint,  and  now 
two  days  were  gone 


Since  she  had  food: — therefore  I  did  ! 
.  awaken 
The    Tartar    steed,    who,    from    his   i 
ebon  mane 
Soon  as  the  clinging  slumbers  he  had   i 
shaken, 
Bent  his  thin  head  to  seek  the  brazen   : 

rein, 
Following  me  obediently;  with  pain   ! 
Of  heart   so  deep  and  dread  that  one 
caress, 
When  lips  and  heart  refuse  to  part 
again 
Till    they   have    told    their  fill,  could  I 

scarce  express 
The  anguish    of    her  mute  and  fearful   \ 
tenderness, 

XLIV. 

Cythna  beheld  me  part,  as  I  bestrode 
That    willing    steed  —  *Jie    tempest 
and  the  night, 


Which    gave    my  path  its  safety  as  I 
rode 
Down  the  ravine  of  rocks,  did  soon 

unite 
The  darkness  and  the  tumult  of  their 
might 
Borne    on    all  winds.  —  Far,  through 
the  streaming  rain 
Floating,  at  intervals  the  garments 
white 
Of    Cythna    gleamed,    and    her  voice 
once  again 
Came  to  me  on  the  gust,  and  soon  I 

reached  the  plain. 
i 

XLV. 

I  dreaded  not  the  tempest,  nor  did  he 

Who  bore  me,  but  his  eyeballs  wide 

and  red 

Turned  on  the  lightning's  cleft  exult- 

ingly : 

And,    when    the  earth    beneath  his 

tameless  tread 
Shook  with  the  sullen  thunder,  he 
would  spread 
His  nostrils  to  the  blast,  and  joyously 
Mock  the  fierce  peal  with  neighings; 
—  thus  we  sped 
O'er   the  lit    plain,  and  soon  I  could 
descry 
Where  Death  and  Fire  had  gorged  the 
spoil  of  victory. 


There    was    a    desolate    village    in    a 
wood, 
Whose   bloom-inwoven  leaves  now 
scattering  fed 
The   hungry  storm;    it  was  a  place  of 
blood, 
A    heap   of    hearthless  walls;  —  the 

flames  were  dead 
Within  those  dwellings  now, — the 
life  had  fled 
From  all  those  corpses  now,  — but  the 
wide  sky, 
Flooded  with  lightning,  was  ribbed 
overhead 
By  the  black  rafters,  and  around  did  lie 
Women,  and  babes,  and  men  slaughtered 
confusedly. 


i8o 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Beside  the  fountain  in  the  market-place 

Dismounting,  I  beheld  those  corpses 

stare 

With  horny  eyes   upon    each  other's 

face, 

And    on    the    earth,    and    on    the 

vacant  air, 
And  upon  me,  close  to  the  waters 
where 
I    stoopt    to    slake     my    thirst;  —  I 
shrank  to  taste, 
For  the  salt  bitterness  of  blood  was 
there;  # 

But  tied  the  steed  beside,  and  sought 
in  haste 
If  any  yet  survived  amid  that  ghastly 
waste. 

XLVIII. 

No  living  thing  was  there  beside  one 
woman 
Whom   I    found   wandering   in  the 
streets,  and  she 
Was  withered  from  a  likeness  of  aught 
human 
Into  a  fiend,  by  some  strange  misery : 
Soon  as  she    heard  my    steps,    she 
leapt  on  me, 
And  glued  her  burning  lips  to  mine, 
and  laught 
With  a  loud,  long,  and  frantic  laugh 
of  glee, 
And  cried,  "Now,  Mortal,  thou  hast 

deeply  quafft 
The  Plague's  blue  kisses  —  soon  millions 
shall  pledge  the  draught ! 

XLIX. 

"  My  name  is  Pestilence — this  bosom 
dry 
Once  fed  two  babes  —  a  sister  and 
a  brother  — 
When  I  came  home,  one  in  the  blood 
did  lie 
Of  three  death  wounds  —  the  flames 

had  ate  the  other  ! 
Since  then  I  have  no  longer  been  a 
mother, 
But    I    am     Pestilence;  —  hither    and 
thither 


I    flit    about,  that  I    may  slay  and 
smother ;  — 
All     lips    which    I    have    kist    must 
surely  wither. 
But  Death's  —  if  thou  art  he,  we'll  gc 
to  work  together ! 


"What     seek'st     thou     here?       The 
moonlight  comes  in  flashes, — 
The  dew  is  rising  dankly  from  the 
dell  — 
'T will  moisten   her!    and  thou  shalt 
see  the  gashes 
In     my     sweet     boy,   now    full    of 

worms  —  but  tell 
First    what     thou     seek'st."  —  "I 
seek  for  food."  —  "  'Tis  well, 
Thou   shalt  have   food;     Famine,    my 
paramour, 
Waits    for    us   at    the   feast  —  cruel 
and  fell 
Is  Famine,  but  he  drives  not  from  his 
door 
Those    whom    these     lips    have    kist,, 
alone.     No  more,  no  more!" 


As    thus   she    spake,    she  graspt    me 
with  the  strength 
Of  madness,  and  by  many  a  ruined 
hearth 
She  led,  and  over  many  a  corpse :  — 
at  length 
We  came  to  a  lone  hut,  where,  on 

the  earth 
Which   made  its    floor,   she   in   her 
ghastly  mirth, 
Gathering  from  all  those  homes  now 
desolate, 
Had   piled   three    heaps  of    loaves, 
making  a  dearth 
Among  the  dead  —  round   which  she 
set  in  state 
A  ring  of   cold  stiff  babes;   silent  and 
stark  they  sate. 


She    leapt    upon    a    pile,   and    lifted 
high 
Her  mad  looks  to  the  lightning,  and 
cried:    "  Eat ! 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


181 


Share  the  great  feast  —  to-morrow  we 
must  die  !  " 
And  then  she  spurned  the   loaves, 

with  her  pale  feet, 
Towards    her    bloodless    guests;  — 
that  sight  to  meet, 
Mine  eyes  and  my  heart  ached,  and, 
but  that  she 
Who    loved    me    did    with    absent 
looks  defeat 
Despair,  I  might  have  raved  in  sym- 
pathy : 
But  now  I   took  the  food  that  woman 
offered  me; 


And,  vainly  having  with  her  madness 
striven 
If   I  might  win  her  to  return  with 
me, 
Departed.     In  the   eastern  beams  of 
Heaven 
The   lightning   now    grew   pallid  — 

rapidly 
As  by  the  shore  of  the  tempestuous 
sea 
The    dark   steed    bore    me,    and    the 
mountain  gray 
Soon    echoed   to    his  hoofs,  and  I 
could  see 
Cythna  among  the  rocks,  where  she 
alway 
Had  sate  with  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  the 
lingering  day. 

LIV. 

And  joy  was  ours  to  meet:  she  was 
most  pale, 
Famisht,    and  wet,   and  weary;    so 
I  cast 
My   arms  around  her,  lest   her    steps 
should  fail 
As  to  our  home  we  went,  and  thus 

embraced, 
Her  full  heart  seemed  a  deeper  joy 
to  taste 
Than  e'er  the  prosperous  know;  the 
steed  behind 
Trod  peacefully  along  the  mountain 
waste : 
We    reach    our    home     ere    morning 
could  unbind 


Night's   latest  veil,  and  on  our  bridal- 
couch  reclined. 


Her  chilled  heart  having  cherisht  in 
my  bosom, 
And  sweetest    kisses   past,  we  two 
did  share 
Our  peaceful  meal:  —  as  an  autumnal 
blossom 
Which  spreads  its  shrunk  leaves  in 

the  sunny  air 
After   cold  showers,   like  rainbows 
woven  there, 
Thus  in  her  lips  and  cheeks  the  vital 
spirit 
Mantled,  and  in  her  eyes  an  atmos- 
phere 
Of     health    and    hope;     and    sorrow 
languished  near  it, 
And  fear,  and  all  that  dark  despondence 
doth  inherit. 


CANTO  VII. 


So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray 

Which    fed    upon     the     wrecks    of 

night  and  storm 

Now    lingering   on  the    winds;    light 

airs  did  play 

Among    the     dewy  weeds,  the  sun 

was  warm, 
And  we  sate  linkt  in  the  inwoven 
charm 
Of  converse   and   caresses  sweet  and 
deep, 
Speechless  caresses,  talk  that  might 
disarm 
Time,   though  he   wield   the  darts  of 
death  and  sleep, 
And  those  thrice   mortal   barbs  in  his 
own  poison  steep. 


II. 


I   told   her  of    my  sufferings  and   mj 
madness, 
And     how,    awakened    from     thai 
dreamy  mood 


l82 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


By    Liberty's    uprise,  the  strength  of 
gladness 
Came  to  my  spirit  in  my  solitude; 
And  all  that  now  I  was;  while  tears 
pursued 
Each  other  down  her  fair  and   listen- 
ing cheek 
Fast    as    the    thoughts    which    fed 
them,  like  a  flood 
From  sunbright   dales;    and,   when  I 
ceast  to  speak, 
Her  accents  soft  and  sweet  the  pausing 
air  did  wake. 

III. 

She  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  strange 
endurance, 
Like   broken  memories   of   many  a 
heart 
Woven    into    one;    to  which  no  firm 
assurance, 
So  wild  were  they,  could  her  own 

faith  impart. 
She  said  that  not  a  tear  did  dare  to 
start 
From  the  swoln    brain,   and  that   her 
thoughts  were  firm, 
When  from  all  mortal  hope  she  did 
depart, 
Borne     by    those    slaves    across    the 
ocean's  term, 
And  that  she  reached  the  port  without 
one  fear  infirm. 

IV. 

One  was  she   among  many  there,  the 
thralls 
Of  the  cold  Tyrant's  cruel  lust:  and 
they 
Laught  mournfully  in  those  polluted 
halls; 
But   she  was  calm  and   sad,  musing 

alway 
On  loftiest  enterprise,  till  on  a  day 
The  Tyrant   heard  her  singing  to  her 
lute 
A  wild  and  sad  and  spirit-thrilling 
lay, 
Like  winds  that   die   in  wastes- — one 
moment  mute 
The  evil  thoughts  it  made  which  did  his 
breast  pollute. 


Even  when  he  saw  her  wondrous  love- 
liness, 
One    moment    to    great     Nature  s 
sacred  power 
He  bent,  and  was  no  longer  passion- 
less; 
But,  when  he  bade  her  to  his  secret 

bower 
Be  borne,  a  loveless  victim,  and  she 
tore 
Her  locks  in  agony,  and  her  words  of 
flame 
And    mightier    looks    availed    not;  . 
then  he  bore 
Again  his  load  of  slavery,  and  became 
A  king,  a  heartless  beast,  a  pageant  and 
a  name. 


She  told  me  what  a  loathsome  agony 
Is  that  when  selfishness  mocks  love's 
delight, 
Foul  as  in  dream's  most  fearful  imagery 
To  dally  with  the  mowing  dead  — 

that  night 
All    torture,   fear,  or  horror,  made 
seem  light 
Which    the   soul    dreams    or    knows, 
and,  when  the  day 
Shone  on  her  awful  frenzy,  from  the 
sight, 
Where  like  a  Spirit  in  fleshly  chains 
she  lay 
Struggling,  aghast   and  pale  the  Tyrant 
fled  away. 


Her  madness  was  a  beam  of  light,  a 
power 
Which    dawned    through    the     rent 
soul;    and  words  it  gave, 
Gestures,  and  looks,  such  as  in  whirl- 
winds bore 
(Which    might    not    be    withstood, 

whence  none  could  save) 
All    who    approacht    their    sphere, 
like  some  calm  wave 
Vext  into   whirlpools  by    the   chasms 
beneath; 
And  sympathy  made  each  attendant 
slave 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


183 


Fearless   and  free,  and  they  began  to 
breathe 
Deep  curses,  like  the  voice  of  flames  far 
underneath. 


The  King  felt  pale  upon  his  noon-day 
throne : 
At  night  two  slaves  he  to  her  cham- 
ber sent; 
One  was  a  green  and  wrinkled  eunuch, 
grown 
From  human  shape  into  an  instru- 
ment 
Of  all  things  ill — distorted,  bowed, 
and  bent; 
The  other  was  a  wretch  from  infancy 
Made  dumb  by  poison,  who  naught 
knew  or  meant 
But  to  obey;    from  the  fire-isles  came 
he, 
A  diver  lean  and  strong,  of  Oman's  coral 
sea. 


They  bore  her  to  a  bark,  and  the  swift 
stroke 
Of    silent    rowers    clove    the    blue 
moonlight  seas, 
Until    upon    their    path   the    morning 
broke ; 
They  anchored  then  where,  be  there 

calm  or  breeze, 
The    gloomiest  of    the    drear    Sym- 
plegades 
Shakes  with  the  sleepless  surge;  — the 
Ethiop  there 
Wound  his  long  arms  around  her, 
and  with  knees 
Like     iron    clasped     her     feet,    and 
plunged  with   her 
Among  the    closing  waves  out  of   the 
boundless  air. 


"  Swift  as  an  eagle  stooping  from  the 

plain 
Of  morning  light  into  some  shadowy 

wood, 
He  plunged  through  the  green  silence 

of  the  main, 


Through  many  a  cavern  which  the 

eternal  flood 
Had  scoopt    as   dark    lairs    for   its 
monster  brood; 
And  among  mighty  shapes  which  fled 
in  wonder, 
And  among  mightier  shadows  which 
pursued 
His   heels,  he  wound;    until  the  dark 
rocks  under 
He  touched  a  golden  chain  —  a  sound 
arose  like  thunder. 


XI. 

"  A   stunning  clang  of  massive  bolts 
redoubling 
Beneath  the  deep  —  a  burst  of  waters 
driven 
As  from  the  roots  of  the  sea,  raging 
and  bubbling: 
And  in  that  roof  of  crags  a  space 

was  riven 
Through  which  there  shone  the  em- 
erald beams  of  heaven, 
Shot  through  the  lines  of  many  waves 
inwoven 
Like  sunlight  through  acacia  woods 
at  even, 
Through  which  his  way  the  diver  hav- 
ing cloven 
Past  like  a  spark  sent  up  out  of  a  burn- 
ing oven. 

XII. 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "he  laid  me 
in  a  cave 
Above  the  waters,  by  that  chasm  of 
sea, 
A  fountain  round  and  vast,  in  which 
the  wave, 
Imprisoned,   boiled   and  leapt  per- 
petually, 
Down  which,  one  moment  resting, 
he  did  flee, 
Winning  the  adverse  depth;    that  spa- 
cious cell 
Like  an  hupaithric  temple  wide  and 
high, 
Whose  aery  dome  is  inaccessible, 
Was    pierced    with    one    round    cleft 
through  which  the  sunbeams  feli 


1 84 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


"  Below,    the    fountain's    brink    was 
richly  paven 
With  the   deep's  wealth,  coral  and 
pearl,  and  sand 
Like  spangling  gold,  and  purple  shells 
engraven 
With   mystic   legends  by  no  mortal 

hand, 
Left  there  when,  thronging  to  the 
moon's  command, 
The    gathering   waves  rent   the    Hes- 
perian gate 
Of  mountains,   and  on   such  bright 
floor  did  stand 
Columns,  and  shapes  like  statues,  and 
the  state 
Of  kingless  thrones,  which  Earth  did  in 
her  heart  create. 


"The    fiend    of   madness    which   had 
made    its    prey 
Of    my    poor    heart    was    lulled    to 
sleep  awhile : 
There  was  an  interval  of  many  a  day, 
And  a  sea-eagle  brought    me    food 

the  while, 
Whose   nest  was  built  in   that   un- 
trodden isle, 
And   who   to  be   the  jailer    had  been 
taught 
Of  that  strange  dungeon;  as  a  friend 
whose  smile 
Like  light  and   rest  at  morn  and  even 
is  sought 
That  wild  bird  was  to  me,  till  madness 
misery  brought. 

XV. 

"The  misery  of  a  madness  slow  and 
creeping, 

Which    made    the   earth   seem  fire, 
the  sea  seem  air, 
And  the  white  clouds  of  noon,  which 
oft  were  sleeping 

In  the  blue  heaven  so  beautiful  and 
fair, 

Like  hosts  of  ghastly  shadows  hov- 
ering there; 


And  the  sea-eagle  looked  a  fiend  who 
bore 
Thy    mangled    limbs    for    food !  — 
Thus  all  things  were 
Transformed   into  the  agony  which   I 
wore 
Even    as    a   poisoned  robe  around  my 
bosom's  core. 


"Again  I  knew  the  day  and  night  fast 
fleeing, 
The  eagle  and  the  fountain  and  the 
air; 
Another  frenzy  came  —  there  seemed 
a  being 
WTithin    me  —  a    strange     load    my 

heart  did  bear, 
As  if  some  living  thing  had  made  its 
lair 
Even  in  the  fountains  of  my  life: — a 
long 
And  wondrous  vision,  wrought  from 
my  despair, 
Then  grew,  like  sweet  reality  among 
Dim    visionary     woes,    an    unreposing 
throng. 

XVII. 

"  Methought    I    was    about    to   be    a 
mother  — 
Month    after    month  went  by,  and 
still  I  dreamt 
That  we    should   soon   be   all  to  one 
another, 
I  and  my  child;  and  still  new  pulses 

seemed 
To   beat  beside  my  heart,  and  still 
I  deemed 
There  was  a  babe  within  —  and,  when 
the  rain 
Of  winter  through  the  rifted  cavern 
streamed, 
Methought,  after  a  lapse  of  lingering 
pain, 
I  saw  that  lovely  shape  which  near  my 
heart  had  lain. 

XVIII. 

"It    was    a    babe,   beautiful    from   its 
birth, — 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


185 


It  was  like  thee,  dear  love,  its  eyes 
were  thine, 
Its  brow,    its  lips,  and   so   upon    the 
earth 
It    laid    its  fingers    as  now  rest   on 

mine 
Thine    own,    beloved!  — 't    was    a 
dream  divine; 
Even  to   remember  how  it  fled,  how 
swift, 
How  utterly,  might  make  the  heart 
repine,  — 
Though     't    was    a    dream."  — Then 
Cythna  did  uplift 
Her   looks  on  mine,  as  if  some  doubt 
she  sought  to  shift : 


A  doubt  which  would  not  flee,  a  ten- 
derness 
Of    questioning  grief,    a    source    of 
thronging  tears : 
Which  having  past,  as  one  whom  sobs 
oppress 
She  spoke:  "  Yes,  in  the  wilderness 

of  years 
Her  memory  aye  like  a  green  home 
appears; 
She  suckt  her  fill  even  at   this  breast, 
sweet  love, 
For  many  months.     I  had  no  mortal 
fears; 
Methought  I  felt  her  lips  and  breath 
approve 
It  was  a  human  thing  which  to  my  bosom 
clove. 


"I    watcht    the    dawn    of    her    first 
smiles,  and  soon, 
When    zenith-stars  were   trembling 
on  the  wave, 
Or  when   the  beams  of   the    invisible 
moon 
Or   sun   from  many  a  prism  within 

the  cave 
Their    gem-born    shadows    to    the 
water  gave, 
Her  looks  would  hunt  them,  and  with 
outspread  hand, 
From  the  swift  lights  which   might  j 
that  fountain  pave, 


She  would  mark  one,  and  laugh  when, 
that  command 
Slighting,  it  lingered  there,   and   could 
not  understand. 


"  Methought  her  looks  began  to  talk 
with  me : 
And  no  articulate  sounds  but  some- 
thing sweet 
Her  lips  would  frame,  —  so  sweet  it 
could  not  be 
That  it  was  meaningless;    her  touch 

would  meet 
Mine,  and  our   pulses   calmly  flow 
and  beat 
In  response  while  we  slept;   and,  on 
a  day 
When  I  was  happiest  in  that  strange 
,  retreat, 

With  heaps  of  golden  shells  we  two 
did  play, — 
Both  infants  weaving  wings  for  time's 
perpetual  way. 


"Ere  night,   methought,   her  waning 
eyes  were  grown 
Weary  with  joy,  and,  tired  with  our 
delight, 
We  on  the  earth  like  sister  twins  lay 
down 
On    one    fair    mother's    bosom:  — 

from  that  night 
She  fled;  — like  those  illusions  clear 
and  bright 
Which  dwell  in  lakes  when   the  red 
moon  on  high 
Pause  ere  it  wakens  tempest;  — and 
her  flight, 
Though  't  was  the  death  of  brainless 
fantasy, 
Yet  smote  my  lonesome  heart  more  than 
all  misery. 


It  seemed  that,  in  the  dreary  night, 

the  diver 
Who  brought  me  thither  came  again, 

and  bore 


1 86 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


My   child    away.     I    saw    the    waters 
quiver 
When  he  so  swiftly  sunk,  as  once 

before : 
Then  morning  came  —  it  shone  even 
as  of  yore, 
But  I  was  changed  —  the  very  life  was 
gone 
Out  of  my  heart  —  I  wasted  more 
and  more 
Day    after    day,    and,     sitting    there 
alone, 
Vext  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  per- 
petual moan. 


"I  was  no  longer  mad,  and  yet  me- 
thought 
My  breasts  were  swoln  and  changed : 
—  in  every  vein 
The   blood    stood    still    one    moment, 
while  that  thought 
Was  passing  —  with  a  gush  of  sick- 
ening pain 
It  ebbed  even  to  its  withered  springs 
again : 
When  my  wan  eyes  in  stern  resolve  I 
turned 
From   that   most  strange    delusion, 
which  would  fain 
Have  waked  the  dream  for  which  my 
spirit  yearned 
With  more   than    human   love, — then 
left  it  unreturned. 


"So,  now  my  reason  was  restored  to 
me, 
I  struggled  with  that  dream,  which, 
like  a  beast 
Most    fierce    and    beauteous,    in    my 
memory 
Had  made  its  lair,  and  on  my  heart 

did  feast; 
But  all  that  cave  and  all  its  shapes, 
possest 
By  thoughts  which  could  not  fade,  re- 
newed each  one 
Some  smile,  some  look,  some  ges- 
ture, which  had  blest 
Me  heretofore;    I,  sitting  there  alone, 


Vext  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  per- 
petual moan. 


"  Time    past,    I    know    not    whether 
months  or  years; 
For   day  nor  night   nor   change   of 
seasons  made 
Its  note,  but  thoughts  and  unavailing 
tears; 
And    I    became    at    last   even   as  a 

shade, 
A    smoke,   a   cloud    on    which    the 
winds  have  preyed 
Till  it  be  thin  as  air;    until,  one  even, 
A  Nautilus  upon  the  fountain  played, 
Spreading  his  azure  sail  where  breath 
of  Heaven 
Descended  not,  among  the  waves  and 
whirlpools  driven. 

XXVII. 

"  And,   when  the   Eagle    came,   that 

lovely  thing, 

Oaring  with  rosy  feet  its  silver  boat, 

Fled  near  me  as  for  shelter;    on  slow 

wing 

The   Eagle  hovering  o'er  his   prey 

did  float; 
But,  when  he  saw  that  I  with  fear 
did  note 
His  purpose,  proffering  my  own  food 
to  him, 
The  eager  plumes  subsided  on  his 
throat  — 
He  came  where   that   bright  child  of 
sea  did  swim, 
And  o'er  it  cast  in   peace  his  shadow 
broad  and  dim. 


"  This  wakened  me,  it  gave  me  human 

strength; 
And  hope,  I   know   not   whence  or 

wherefore,  rose, 
But  I   resumed  my  ancient  powers  at 

length; 
My    spirit     felt    again    like    one    of 

those, 
Like  thine,  whose  fate  it  is  to  make 

the  woes 


THE  REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


187 


Of  humankind  their  prey  —  what  was 
this  cave? 
Its  deep  foundation  no  firm  purpose 
knows, 
Immutable,  resistless,  strong  to  save, 
Like  mind  while  yet  it  mocks  the  all- 
devourine  grave. 


"And   where   was   Laon?    might  my 
heart  be  dead 
While   that  far  dearer  heart   could 
move  and  be  ? 
Or  whilst  over  the  earth  the  pall  was 
spread 
Which    I    had    sworn    to    rend?     I 

might  be  free, 
Could  I  but  win  that  friendly  bird 
to  me 
To  bring  me  ropes;    and  long  in  vain 
I  sought, 
By  intercourse  of  mutual  imagery 
Of  objects,  if  such  aid  he   could   be 
taught; 
But  fruit  and  flowers  and  boughs,  yet 
never  ropes,  he  brought. 


"  We  live  in  our  own  world,  and  mine 
was  made 
From  glorious  fantasies  of  hope  de- 
parted: 
Ay,  we  are  darkened  with  their  float- 
ing shade, 
Or    cast    a    lustre    on    them  —  time 

imparted 
Such  power  to  me  I  became  fear- 
less-hearted, 
My  eye  and  voice  grew  firm,  calm  was 
my  mind, 
And  piercing,  like  the  morn  now  it 
has  darted 
Its  lustre  on  all  hidden  things  behind 
Yon  dim  and  fading  clouds  which  load 
the  weary  wind. 

XXXI. 

"My  mind  became  the  book  through 
which  I  grew 
Wise  in  all  human  wisdom,  and  its 
cave 


Which   like   a   mine   I   rifled    through 

and  through, 
To    me    the    keeping    of    its    secrets 
gave, — 
One  mind,  the  type  of  all,  the  move- 
less wave 
Whose  calm  reflects  all  moving  things 
that  are, 
Necessity  and  love  and  life,  the  grave 
And  sympathy,  fountains  of  hope  and 
fear, 
Justice    and    truth    and   time    and    the 
world's  natural  sphere. 


"And    on    the    sand    would    I    make 
signs  to  range 
These  woofs,  as  they  were  woven,  of 
my  thought; 
Clear  elemental  shapes,  whose  smallest 
change 
A  subtler  language  within  language 

wrought : 
The  key  of  truths  which  once  were 
dimly  taught 
In  old  Crotona;  —  and  sweet  melodies 
Of    love    in    that    lorn    solitude    I 
caught 
From  mine  own  voice  in  dream,  when 
thy  dear  eyes 
Shone  through  my  sleep,   and  did  that 
utterance  harmonize. 


XXXIII. 

"  Thy  songs  were  winds  whereon  I  fled 

at  will, 

As  in  a  winged  chariot,  o'er  the  plain 

Of  crystal  youth;    and  thou  wert  there 

to  fill 

My    heart    with    joy,   and   there  we 

satt'  again 
On  the  gray  margin  of  the  glimmer- 
ing main, 
Happy  as  then,  but  wiser  far,  for  we 
Smiled  on  the  flowery  grave  in  which 
were  lain 
Fear,   Faith,    and  Slavery;    and  man- 
kind was  free, 
Equal,  and  pure,  and  wise,  in  wisdom's 
prophecy. 


1 88 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


"  For  to  my  will  my  fancies  were  as 
slaves 
To  do  their  sweet  and  subtile  minis- 
tries; 
And    oft    from  that    bright   fountain's 
shadowy  waves 
They    would    make    human    throngs 

gather  and  rise 
To  combat  with  my  overflowing  eyes 
And  voice  made   deep  with  passion  — 
thus  I  grew 
Familiar    with    the    shock    and    the 
surprise 
And  war  of  earthly  minds,  from  which 
I  drew 
The  power  which  has  been  mine  to  frame 
their  thoughts  anew. 


"  And  thus  my  prison  was   the  popu- 
lous earth  — 
Where  I  saw  —  even  as  misery  dreams 
of  morn 
Before    the    east    has    given   its    glory 
birth  — 
Religion's    pomp  made  desolate  by 

the  scorn 
Of    Wisdom's    faintest    smile,    and 
thrones  uptorn, 
And   dwellings  of    mild  people   inter- 
spersed 
With    undivided    fields    of    ripening 
corn, 
And  love  made   free,  —  a   hope  which 
we  have  nurst 
Even  with  our  blood  and  tears,  —  until 
its  glory  burst. 


"  All  is  not  lost !      There  is  some  rec- 
ompense 

For   hope  whose    fountain    can    be 
thus  profound, 
Even   throned    Evil's    splendid    impo- 
tence 

Girt  by  its  hell  of  power,  the  secret 
sound 

Of   hymns   to   truth    and   freedom  — 
the  dread  bound 


Of  life  and  death  past  fearlessly  and 
well, 

Dungeons  wherein  the  high  resolve  is 
found, 

Racks  which  degraded  woman's  great- 
ness tell, 
And  what  may  else  be  good  and  irresist- 
ible. 


"  Such  are    the   thoughts  which,    like 
the  fires  that  flare 
In  storm-encompast  isles,  we  cherish 
yet 
In   this    dark    ruin  —  such  were  mine 
even  there; 
As  in  its  sleep  some  odorous  violet, 
While    yet    its    leaves    with    nightly 
dews  are  wet, 
Breathes  in  prophetic  dreams  of  day's 
uprise, 
Or  as,  ere  Scythian  frost  in  fear  has 
met 
Spring's   messengers   descending  from 
the  skies, 
The  buds  foreknow  their  life  —  this  hope 
must  ever  rise. 


"  So    years    had   past,    when    sudden 
earthquake  rent 
The  depth  of  ocean,  and  the  cavern 
crackt, 
With    sound    as    if    the   world's    wide 
continent 
Had  fallen  in  universal  ruin  wrackt : 
And   through    the  cleft  streamed  in 
one  cataract 
The   stifling  waters.  —  When   I   woke, 
the  flood, 
Whose    banded    waves    that    crystal 
cave  had  sackt, 
Was  ebbing  round   me,  and  my  bright 
abode 
Before  me  yawned  —  a  chasm  desert  and 
bare  and  broad. 

xxxix. 

"Above  me  was  the  sky,  beneath   the 
sea: 
I  stood  upon  a  point   of    shattered 
stone. 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


1S9 


And  heard  loose  rocks  rushing  tumul- 
tuously 
With    splash    and    shock    into    the 

deep  —  anon 
All    ceast,    and    there    was    silence 
wide  and  lone. 
I    felt    that  I  was  free !     The   ocean- 
spray 
Quivered  beneath  my  feet,  the  broad 
Heaven  shone 
Around,  and  in  my  hair  the  winds  did 
play, 
Lingering,  as  they  pursued  their  unim- 
peded way. 


"  My  spirit  moved  upon   the  sea  like 
wind, 
Which  round  some  thymy  cape  will 
lag  and  hover, 
Though  it    can  wake    the  still   cloud, 
and  unbind 
The  strength  of   tempest :    day  was 

almost  over, 
When    through    the    fading    light    I 
could  discover 
A  ship    approaching  —  its  white    sails 
were  fed 
With   the  north  wind — its   moving 
shade  did  cover 
The  twilight  deep;  —  the  mariners  in 
dread 
Cast   anchor  when   they   saw  new  rocks 
around  them  spread. 


"  And,  when  they  saw  one  sitting  on 
a  crag, 
They    sent    a    boat    to    me;  — the   \ 
sailors  rowed 
In  awe  through  many  a  new  and  fear-   j 
ful  jag 
Of  overhanging  rock,  through  which   j 

there  flowed 
The    foam    of    streams    that    cannot   \ 
make  abode. 
They  came  and    questioned    me,  but,    ! 
when  they  heard 
My  voice,  they  became  silent,  and   j 
they  stood 
And  moved  as  men  in  whom  new  love   { 
had  stirred  I 


Deep  thoughts :  so  to  the  ship  we  past 
without  a  word. 


CANTO   VIII. 


"  I    sate  beside  the   steersman   then, 
and,  gazing 
Upon   the  west,  cried,  •  Spread  the 
sails  !     Behold  ! 
The    sinking    moon    is    like    a    watch- 
tower  blazing 
Over  the  mountains  yet;    the  City  of 

Gold 
Yon  cape  alone  does  from  the  sight 
withhold; 
The  stream  is  fleet  —  the  north  breathes 
steadily 
Beneath  the  stars,  they  tremble  with 
the  cold  ! 
Ye  cannot  rest  upon  the  dreary  sea  !  — 
Haste,    haste    to    the    warm    home    of 
happier  destiny  !  ' 


"  The  mariners  obeyed  —  the  Captain 
stood 
Aloof,  and,  whispering  to  the  pilot, 
said: 
'  Alas,  alas  !    I  fear  we  are  pursued 
By  wicked  ghosts :  a  Phantom  of  the 

Dead, 
The  night  before  we  sailed,  came  to 
my  bed 
In  dream,  like  that!  '     The  pilot  then 
replied: 
'It    cannot    be  —  she    is    a    human 
Maid  — 
Her  low  voice  makes  you  weep  —  she 
is  some  bride 
Or  daughter  of  high  birth  —  she  can  be 
naught  beside.' 

in. 

"We   past   the   islets,    borne  by  wind 

and  stream, 
And,    as    we    sailed,    the     mariners 

came  near 
And  thronged   around  to  listen; — in 

the  "learn 


190 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Of  the   pale   moon  I  stood,  as  one 

whom  fear 
May  not  attaint,  and  my  calm  voice 
did  rear; 
'Ye  all  are  human  —  yon  broad  moon 
gives  light 
To  millions  who  the  selfsame  like- 
ness wear, 
Even    while    I    speak  —  beneath    this 
very  night 
Their  thoughts  flow  on  like  ours,  in  sad- 
ness or  delight. 


"  'What  dream  ye?     Your  own  hands 
have  built  an  home, 
Even    for   yourselves  on  a   beloved 
shore : 
For    some,    fond   eyes   are  pining   till 
they  come, 
How  they  will  greet  him  when  his 

toils  are  o'er, 
And  laughing  babes  rush  from  the 
well-known  door  ! 
Is  this  your  care?  ye  toil  for  your  own 
good  — 
Ye   feel  and  think — has  some  im- 
mortal power 
Such  purposes?  or,  in  a  human  mood, 
Dream  ye  some   Power  thus  builds  for 
rxvan  in  solitude? 


'"What    is    that    Power?      Ye    mock 
yourselves,  and  give 
A  human  heart  to  what  ye  cannot 
know: 
As  if  the  cause  of  life  could  think  and 
live  ! 
'T  were    as    if    man's    own    works 

should  feel,  and  show 
The  hopes  and  fears   and  thoughts 
from  which  they  flow, 
And  he  be  like  to  them  !     Lo  !    Plague 
is  free 
To    waste,    Blight,    Poison,    Earth- 
quake, Hail,  and  Snow, 
Disease  and  Want,  and  worse  Neces- 
sity 
Of  hate  and   ill,  and  Pride,  and  Fear, 
and  Tyranny  ! 


"  '  What  is  that  Power?     Some  moon- 
struck sophist  stood 
Watching    the   shade  from  his  own 
soul  upthrown 
Fill  Heaven  and  darken  Earth,  and  in 
such  mood 
The  Form  he  saw  and  worshipt  was 

his  own, 
His    likeness    in    the    world's   vast 
mirror  shown; 
And  't  were  an  innocent  dream,  but 
that  a  faith 
Nurst    by     fear's     dew    of    poison 
grows  thereon, 
And    that    men    say    that    Power    has 
chosen  Death 
On  all  who  scorn  its  laws  to  wreak  im- 
mortal wrath. 

VII. 

"  '  Men  say  that  they  themselves  have 
heard  and  seen, 
Or    known    from    others  who   have 
known  such  things, 
A    Shade,    a    Form,    which    Earth    and 

Heaven  between, 
Wields    an    invisible    rod  —  that    Priests 
and  Kings, 
Custom,  domestic  sway,  ay  all  that 
brings 
Man's   freeborn  soul   beneath  the  op- 
pressor's heel, 
Are    his    strong  ministers,  and  that 
the  stings 
Of  Death  will  make  the  wise  his  ven- 
geance feel, 
Though  truth  and  virtue  arm  their  hearts 
with  tenfold  steel. 


"'And    it    is    said    this    Power    will 

punish  wrong; 
Yes,  add  despair  to  crime,  and  pain 

to  pain  ! 
And  deepest  hell  and  deathless  snakes 

among 
Will    bind   the  wretch  on  whom  is 

fixt  a  stain 
Which  like  a  plague,  a  burden,  and 

a  bane. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


191 


Clung  to  him  while  he  lived;  —  for  love 
and  hate, 
Virtue  and  vice,  they  say,  are  differ- 
ence vain  — 
The    will    of  strength    is    right  —  this 
human  state 
Tyrants,  that    they  may  rule,  with  lies 
thus  desolate. 

IX. 

"'Alas,   what    strength?     Opinion    is 
more  frail 
Than  yon  dim  cloud  now  fading  on 
the  moon 
Even  while  we  gaze,  though  it   awhile 
avail 
To  hide  the  orb  of  truth  —  and  every 

throne 
Of  Earth  or  Heaven,  though  shadow, 
rests  thereon, 
One  shape  of  many  names:  — for  this 
ye  plough 
The  barren  waves  of  ocean,  hence 
each  one 
Is  slave  or  tyrant;  all  betray  and  bow, 
Command   or   kill   or   fear,   or  wreak  or 
suffer  woe. 


"  '  Its   names  are  each  a  sign  which 
maketh  holy 
All    power  —  ay,    the    ghost,     the 
dream,  the  shade, 
Of  power — lust,  falsehood,  hate,  and 
pride,  and  folly; 
The  pattern  whence   all  fraud    and 

wrong  is  made, 
A  law  to  which  mankind  has  been 
betrayed; 
And  human  love  is  as  the  name  well 
known 
Of  a  dear  mother  whom  the    mur- 
derer laid 
In  bloody  grave,   and,  into    darkness 
thrown, 
Gathered   her   wildered    babes    around 
him  as  his  own. 


Oh !    Love,  who  to    the   heart    of 
wandering  man 


Art  as  the  calm   to  ocean's  weary 
waves  ! 
Justice,  or  truth,  or  joy !    those  only 
can 
From  slavery  and    religion's    laby- 
rinth caves 
Guide  us,  as  one  clear  star  the  sea- 
man saves. 
To  give  to  all  an  equal  share  of  good, 
To    track    the    steps   of    Freedom, 
though  through  graves 
She  pass,  to  suffer  all  in  patient  mood, 
To  weep  for  crime,  though  stained  with 
thy  friend's  dearest  blood,  — 

XII. 

"'To  feel  the  peace  of  self-content- 
ment's lot, 
To  own  all  sympathies,  and  outrage 
none, 
And  in  the  inmost  bowers  of  sense  and 
thought, 
Until  life's  sunny  day  is  quite  gone 

down, 
To  sit  and  smile  with  Joy,  or,  not 
alone, 
To  kiss  salt  tears  from  the  worn  cheek 
of  Woe; 
To  live  as  if  to  love  and  live  were 
one;  — 
This   is   not    faith   or  law,   nor   those 
who  bow 
To  thrones  on  Heaven  or  Earth  such 
destiny  may  know. 

XIII. 

"  '  But    children    near    their    parents 
tremble  now, 
Because  they  must  obey  —  one  rules 
another, 
And,   as  one   Power  rules  both  high 
and  low, 
So  man  is  made  the  captive  of  his 

brother, 
And  Hate  is  throned  on  high  with 
Fear  his  mother, 
Above  the  Highest  —  and  those  foun- 
tain-cells 
Whence  love  yet  flowed  when  faith 
had  choked  all  other 
Are  darkened  —  Woman  as  the  bond- 
slave dwells 


192 


THE    REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


Of  man,  a  slave;    and  life  is  poisoned 
in  its  wells. 


"  '  Man  seeks  for  gold  in  mines,  that 
he  may  weave 
A   lasting   chain   for  his   own  slav- 
ery; — 
In  fear  and  restless  care  that  he  may 
live, 
He  toils  for  others,  who  must  ever 

be 
The  joyless  thralls  of  like  captivity; 
He  murders,  for  his  chiefs  delight  in 
ruin; 
He  builds  the  altar,  that  its  idol's 
fee 
May  be  his  very  blood;    he  is  pursu- 
ing— 
Oh,  blind  and  willing  wretch  !  — his  own 
obscure  undoing. 


"'Woman! — she   is    his    slave,   she 
has  become 
A  thing  I  weep  to  speak  —  the  child 
of  scorn, 
The  outcast  of  a  desolated  home; 
Falsehood    and    fear    and    toil  like 

waves,  have  worn 
Channels    upon    her    cheek,   which 
smiles  adorn 
As  calm  decks  the  false  ocean:  — well 
ye  know 
What  Woman  is,  for  none  of  Woman 
born 
Can  choose  but  drain  the  bitter  dregs 
of  woe, 
Which  ever  from  the  oppressed  to  the 
oppressors  flow. 


"'This  need  not  be;    ye  might  arise, 
and  will 
That  gold  should  lose  its  power,  and 
thrones  their  glory; 
That  love,  which   none   may  bind,  be 
free  to  fill 
The    world,    like    light;     and     evil 
faith,   grown  hoary 


With  crime,    be  quencht    and    die. 
—  Yon  promontory 
Even    now    eclipses    the    descending 
moon  !  — 
Dungeons    and   palaces   are   transi- 
tory— 
High  temples  fade  like  vapor  —  Man 
alone 
Remains,  whose  will  has  pawer  when 
all  beside  is  gone. 


"  '  Let  all  be  free  and  equal !  —  From 
your  hearts 
I  feel  an  echo;   through  my  inmost 
frame, 
Like  sweetest  sound,  seeking  its  mate,  it 
darts.  — 
Whence  come  ye,  friends?     Alas,  I 

cannot  name 
All  that  I  read  of  sorrow,  toil,  and 
shame, 
On  your  worn  faces;  as  in  legends  old 
Which    make    immortal    the    disas- 
trous fame 
Of  conquerors  and  impostors  false  and 
bold, 
The  discord  of  your  hearts  I   in  your 
looks  behold. 


"  '  Whence   come   ye,    friends?    from 
pouring  human  blood 
Forth  on  the  earth?     Or  bring  ye 
steel  and  gold, 
That  kings  may  dupe  and  slay  the  mul- 
titude? 
Or   from   the   famished   poor,   pale, 

weak,  and  cold, 
Bear  ye  the  earnings  of  their  toil? 
unfold  ! 
Speak  !    Are  your  hands  in  slaughter's 
sanguine  hue 
Stained    freshly?    have  your   hearts 
in  guile  grown  old? 
Know  yourselves    thus !    ye   shall   be 
pure  as  dew, 
And  I  will  be  a  friend  and  sister  unto 
you. 

XIX. 

"  '  Disguise  it  not  —  we  have  one  hu- 
man heart  ■ — 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


'93 


All  mortal  thoughts  confess  a  com- 
mon home : 
Blush  not  for  what  may  to  thyself  im- 
part 
Stains  of  inevitable  crime  :  the  doom 
Is  this  which  has,  or  may,  or  must,   i 
become 
Thine,  and  all  humankind's.      Ye  are 
the  spoil 
Which  Time  thus  marks  for  the  de- 
vouring tomb, 
Thou  and  thy  thoughts,  and  they,  and 
all  the  toil 
Wherewith  ye  twine  the  rings  of  life's 
perpetual  coil. 


"  '  Disguise  it  not  —  ye  blush  for  what 
ye  hate, 
And  Enmity  is  sister  unto  Shame; 
Look  on  your  mind  —  it  is  the  book 
of  fate  — 
Ah   !     it    is     dark    with     many    a 

blazoned  name 
Of  misery  —  all  are  mirrors  of  the 
same; 
But  the  dark  fiend  who  with  his  iron 
pen, 
Dipt  in  scorn's  fiery  poison  makes 
his  fame 
Enduring  there,  would  o'er  the  heads 

of  men 
Pass  harmless,  if  they  scorned  to  make 
their  hearts  his  den. 


"'Yes,   it    is   Hate  —  that    shapeless 
fiendly  thing 
Of     many     names,    all     evil,     some 
divine  — 
Whom  self-contempt  arms  with  a  mor- 
tal sting; 
Which,    when   the  heart    its    snaky 

folds  entwine 
Is  wasted   quite,  and  when  it  doth 
repine 
To    gorge    such    bitter    prey,    on     all 
beside 
It  turns  with  ninefold  rage,  as,  with 
its  twine 
When  amphisbcena  some  fair  bird  has 
tied, 


Soon  o'er  the  putrid  mass  he  threats  on 
every  side. 


"  '  Reproach  not  thine  own  soul,  but 
know  thyself, 
Nor  hate  another's  crime,  nor  loathe 
thine  own. 
It  is  the  dark  idolatry  of  self 

Which,     when     our     thoughts     and 

actions  once  are  gone, 
Demands  that  man  should  weep  and 
bleed  and  groan: 
Oh  vacant  expiation  !      Be  at  rest.  — 
The   past   is  Death's,   the    future  is 
thine  own; 
And  love  and  joy  can  make  the  foulest 
breast 
A  paradise  of  flowers  where  peace  might 
build  her  nest. 


"  '  Speak  thou  !  whence  come  ye?  '  — ■ 
A  Youth  made  reply: 
'  Wearily,  wearily  o'er   the  bound- 
less deep 
We    sail;  — thou    readest     well    the 
misery 
Told  in  these  faded  eyes,  but  much 

doth  sleep 
Within,  which  there  the  poor  heart 
loves  to  keep, 
Or  dare   not  write  on  the   dishonored 
brow ; 
Even   from  our  childhood  have  we 
learned  to  steep 
The   bread  of  slavery  in  the   tears   of 
woe, 
And  never  dreamed  of  hope  or  refuge 
until  now. 


"'Yes — I    must    speak  —  my  secret 
should  have  perisht 
Even  with  the  heart  it  wasted,  as  a 
brand 
Fades  in  the  dying  flame  whose  life  it 
cherisht, 
But  that  no  human  bosom  can  with- 
stand 


194 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Thee,  wondrous  Lady,  and  the  mild 

command 
Of    thy    keen    eyes: — yes,     we    are 

wretched  slaves, 
Who   from  their  wonted  loves  and 

native  land 
Are  reft,  and  bear  o'er  the  dividing 

waves 
The  unregarded  prey  of  calm  and  happy 

graves. 


XXV. 

"  '  We  drag  afar  from  pastoral  vales 
the  fairest 
Among     the    daughters     of     those 
mountains  lone, 
We  drag  them  there  where   all   things 
best  and  rarest 
Are  stained  and  trampled: — years 

have  come  and  gone 
Since,  like  the  ship  which  bears  me, 
I  have  known 
No    thought;  — but    now  the  eyes  of 
one  dear  Maid 
On  mine  with  light  of  mutual  love 
have  shone: 
She  is  my  life,  —  I  am  but  as  the  shade 
Of  her  —  a  smoke  sent  up  from  ashes, 
soon  to  fade. 


"  '  For  she  must  perish  in  the  Tyrant's 
hall  — 
Alas,   alas  !  '  —  He    ceased,    and   by 
the  sail 
Sate   cowering  —  but    his    sobs    were 
heard  by  all, 
And   still  before  the  ocean  and  the 

gale 
The  ship  fled  fast  till  the  stars  'gan 
to  fail: 
And,   round  me    gathered   with  mute 
countenance, 
The  seamen   gazed,  the   pilot   worn 
and  pale 
With  toil,  the  captain  with  gray  locks, 
whose  glance 
Met  mine  in  restless  awe— -they  stood 
as  in  a  trance. 


"'Recede     not!     pause     not    now! 
Thou  art  grown  old, 
But    Hope   will  make   thee   young, 
for  Hope  and  Youth 
Are    children    of    one    mother,    even 
Love  —  behold  ! 
The  eternal  stars  gaze  on  us !  —  is 

the  truth 
Within  your  soul?  care  for  your  own, 
or  ruth 
For  others'  sufferings?  do  ye  thirst  to 
bear 
A     heart    which    not     the    serpent 
Custom's  tooth 
May  violate  ?  —  Be  free  !  and  even  here 
Swear  to  be  firm  till  death  !  '    They  cried 
'  We  swear !  We  swear  ! ' 


"The  very  darkness    shook,    as  with 
a  blast 
Of  subterranean  thunder,  at  the  cry; 
The  hollow  shore  its  thousand  echoes 
cast 
Into  the  night,  as  if  the  sea  and  sky 
And   earth   rejoiced  with  new-born 
liberty, 
For  in  that   name  they  swore  !     Bolts 
were  undrawn, 
And    on    the    deck,    with    unaccus- 
tomed eye, 
The  captives  gazing  stood,  and  every 
one 
Shrank  as  the  inconstant  torch  upon  her 
countenance  shone. 


"  They  were  earth's   purest   children, 
young  and  fair, 
With     eyes     the     shrines     of     un- 
awakened  thought, 
And    brows    as    bright    as     Spring    or 
morning,  ere 
Dark  time  had  there  its   evil  legend 

wrought 
In  characters  of   cloud  which  wither 
not.  — 
The  change  was  like  a  dream  to  tnem; 
but  soon 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


195 


They  knew  the  glory  of  their  altered 
lot, 
In  the  bright  wisdom  of  youth's  breath- 
less noon, 
Sweet    talk    and    smiles    and    sighs   all 
bosoms  did  attune. 


"  But  one  was  mute;    her  cheeks  and 

lips  most  fair, 

Changing  their  hue  like  lilies  newly 

blown 

Beneath  a  bright  acacia's  shadowy  hair 

Waved  by  the  wind  amid  the  sunny 

noon, 
Showed  that  her  soul  was  quiver- 
ing;   and  full  soon 
That    Youth    arose,    and    breathlessly 
did  look 
On  her  and  me,  as  for  some  speech- 
less boon : 
I  smiled,  and  both  their  hands  in  mine 
I  took, 
And  felt  a  soft  delight  from  what  their 
spirits  shook. 


CANTO  IX. 
I. 

"That  night  we  anchored  in  a  woody 
bay, 
And  sleep  no  more  around  us  dared 
to  hover 
Than,   when   all  doubt   and   fear   has 
passed  away, 
It  shades  the  couch  of  some  unrest- 
ing lover 
Whose  heart  is   now  at  rest :   thus 
night  passed  over 
In  mutual  joy :  — around,  a  forest  grew 
Of   poplars  and   dark   oaks,  whose 
shade  did  cover 
The     waning     stars     prankt    in    the 

waters  blue, 
And  trembled  in  the  wind  which  from 
the  morning  flew. 


The  joyous  mariners  and  each  free 
maiden 


Now  brought  from  the  deep  forest 
many  a  bough, 
With  woodland  spoil  most  innocently 
laden; 
Soon    wreaths    of    budding    foliage 

seemed  to  flow 
Over  the  mast  and  sails,  the  stern 
and  prow 
Were  canopied  with  blooming  boughs, 
—  the  while 
On   the  slant    sun's   path   o'er    the 
waves  we  go 
Rejoicing,  like  the  dwellers  of  an  isle 
Doomed    to   pursue    those    waves   that 
cannot  cease  to  smile. 


"The  many  ships  spotting  the  dark- 
blue  deep 
With  snowy  sails  fled  fast  as  ours 
came  nigh, 
In   fear   and   wonder;    and   on   every 
steep 
Thousands  did  gaze;    they  heard  the 

startling  cry, 
Like   Earth's  own  voice  lifted  un- 
conquerably 
To   all   her  children,   the   unbounded 
mirth, 
The    glorious    joy    of    thy    name  — 
Liberty  ! 
They  heard  !  —  As  o'er  the  mountains 
of  the  earth 
From  peak  to  peak  leap  on  the  beams 
of  morning's  birth: 


"  So  from  that  cry  over  the  boundless 
hills 
Sudden  was    caught   one    universal 
sound, 
Like  a  volcano's  voice  whose  thunder 
fills 
Remotest     skies,  —  such     glorious 

madness  found 
A  path  through  human  hearts  with 
stream  which  drowned 
Its   struggling   fears   and    cares,    dark 
Custom's  brood; 
They   knew   not    whence    it    came, 
but  felt  around 


196 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


A  wide  contagion  poured  —  they  called 
aloud 
On  Liberty  —  that  name  lived  on  the 
sunny  flood. 


"  We  reached  the  port.  —  Alas  !   from 
many  spirits 
The  wisdom  which  had  waked  that 
cry  was  fled, 
Like     the     brief    glory    which     dark 
Heaven  inherits 
From  the  false   dawn,  which   fades 

ere  it  is  spread, 
Upon   the    night's   devouring   dark- 
ness shed: 
Yet  soon  bright  day  will  burst —  even 
like  a  chasm 
Of   fire,   to  burn    the    shrouds   out- 
worn and  dead 
Which  wrap  the  world;    a  wide  en- 
thusiasm, 
To  cleanse  the   fevered  world  as  with 
an  earthquake's  spasm  ! 

VI. 

"I     walkt     through     the     great    City 
then,  but  free 
From    shame    or    fear;     those    toil- 
worn  mariners 
And    happy    maidens    did    encompass 
me; 
And,  like  a  subterranean  wind  that 

stirs 
Some  forest  among  caves,  the  hopes 
and  fears 
From    every    human    soul    a    murmur 
strange 
Made    as   I  past :    and  many  wept, 
with  tears 
Of  joy  and  awe,  and  winged  thoughts 
did  range, 
And  half-extinguisht   words  which  pro- 
phesied of  change. 

VII. 

"  For  with   strong  speech  I  tore  the 
veil  that  hid 
Nature,  and  Truth,  and  Liberty,  and 
Love,  — 


As   one   who    from   some    mountain's 
pyramid 
Points    to    the    unrisen    sun  !  —  the 

shades  approve 
His    truth,     and    flee    from    every 
stream  and  grove. 
Thus,    gentle    thoughts    did    many    a 
bosom  fill,  — 
Wisdom  the  mail  of  tried  affections 
wove 
For  many  a  heart,  and  tameless  scorn 
of  ill 
Thrice    steept  in  molten  steel  the    un- 
conquerable will. 


"  Some  said  I  was  a  maniac  wild  and 
lost; 
Some,  that  I  scarce  had  risen  from 
the  grave, 
The  Prophet's  virgin  bride,  a  heavenly 
ghost :  — 
Some  said  I  was  a  fiend   from  my 

weird  cave, 
Who  had  stolen  human  shape,  and 
o'er  the  wave, 
The  forest,  and  the  mountain,  came; 
—  some  said 
I  was  the   child  of   God,  sent  down 
to  save 
Women'  from   bonds  and   death,    and 
on  my  head 
The  burden  of  their  sins  would  fright- 
fully be  laid. 


"  But   soon   my   human   words   found 
sympathy 
In   human   hearts:     the   purest    and 
the  best, 
As  friend  with  friend,  made  common 
cause  with  me, 
And   they   were   few,  but    resolute; 

—  the  rest, 
Ere  yet  success  the  enterprise  had 
blest, 
Leagued   with  me  in   their   hearts:  — 
their  meals,  their  slumber, 
Their  hourly  occupations,  were  pos- 
sest 
By  hopes  which  I  had  armed   to  over- 
number 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


197 


Those  hosts  of  meaner  cares  which  life's 
strong  wings  encumber. 


"  But  chiefly  women,  whom  my  voice 
did  waken 
From   their    cold,    careless,   willing 
slavery, 
Sought   me :     one    truth    their    dreary 
prison  has  shaken, 
They  lookt    around,    and   lo !    they 

became  free  ! 
Their     many    tyrants,   sitting    deso- 
lately 
In    slave-deserted    halls,    could    none 
restrain ; 
For  wrath's  red  fire  had  withered  in 
the  eye 
Whose    lightning  once   was  death,  — 
nor  fear  nor  gain 
Could  tempt   one  captive  now   to   lock 
another's  chain. 


"  Those  who  were   sent   to  bind  me 
wept,  and  felt 
Their  minds  outsoar  the  bonds  which 
claspt  them  round, 
Even  as  a  waxen  shape  may  waste  and 
melt 
In  the  white  furnace;  and  a  visioned 

swound, 
A  pause  of  hope  and  awe,  the  City 
bound, 
Which,  like  the  silence  of  a  tempest's 
birth, 
When  in   its   awful    shadow   it   has 
wound 
The  sun,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  and  the 
earth, 
Hung  terrible,  ere    yet  the    lightnings 
have  leapt  forth. 


"  Like  clouds  inwoven  in  the  silent 
sky 
By  winds  from  distant  regions  meet- 
ing there, 
In  the  high  name  of  truth  and  liberty 
Around  the  City  millions  gathered 
were 


By  hopes  which   sprang  from  many 
a  hidden  lair, 
Words  which  the  lore  of  truth  in  hues 
of  flame 
Arrayed,  thine  own  wild  songs  which 
in  the  air 
Like  homeless  odors  floated,  and  the 
name 
Of  thee,  and  many  a  tongue  which  thou 
hadst  dipt  in  flame. 


XIII. 

"  The   Tyrant   knew    his    power    was 
gone,  but  Fear, 
The  nurse  of  Vengeance,  lade   him 
wait  the  event  — 
That    perfidy   and    custom,    gold    und 
prayer, 
And  whatsoe'er,  when  force  is  impo- 
tent, 
To  Fraud  the  sceptre  of  the  world 
has  lent, 
Might,  as  he  judged,  confirm  his  fail- 
ing sway. 
Therefore  throughout  the  streets  the 
priests  he  sent 
To   curse   the  rebels.     To   their   gods 
did  they 
For    Earthquake,    Plague,    and    Want, 
kneel  in  the  public  way. 

XIV. 

"  And    grave    and    hoary  men   were 
bribed  to  tell, 
From   seats  where  law  is  made  the 
slave  of  wrong, 
How  glorious  Athens  in  her  splendor 
fell 
Because  her  sons  were  free,  —  and 

that,  among 
Mankind,  the  many  to  the   few  be- 
long, 
By  Heaven,   and  Nature,  and   Neces- 
sity. 
They  said  that  age  was  truth,  and 
that  the  young 
Marred  with  wild  hopes  the  peace  of 
slavery, 
With   which    old   times   and    men   had 
quelled  the  vain  and  free. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


xv. 

"  And   with    the    falsehood    of    their 
poisonous  lips 
They  breathed  on  the  enduring  mem- 
ory 
Of  sages  and  of  bards  a  brief  eclipse; 
There  was  one  teacher,  who  neces- 
sity 
Had  armed  with  strength  and  wrong 
against  mankind, 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  aye  to  be; 
That  we  were  weak  and  sinful,  frail 
and  blind, 
And  that  the  will  of  one  was  peace, 
and  we 
Should  seek    for  naught  on  earth   but 
toil  and  misery. 


"  •  For  thus  we  might  avoid  the  hell 
hereafter.' 
So  spake   the  hypocrites,  who  curst 
and  lied; 
Alas  !  their  sway  was  past,  and  tears 
and  laughter 
Clung  to  their  hoary  hair,  withering 

the  pride 
Which  in  their  hollow  hearts  dared 
still  abide; 
And  yet  obscener  slaves  with  smoother 
brow, 
And  sneers  on  their  strait  lips,  thin, 
blue,  and  wide, 
Said  that  the  rule  of  men  was  over  now, 
And  hence  the  subject  world  to  woman's 
will  must  bow. 


"  And  gold  was  scattered  through  the 
streets,  and  wine 
Flowed  at  a  hundred  feasts  within 
the  wall. 
In  vain  !  the  steady  towers  in  Heaven 
did  shine 
As    they    were    wont,    nor    at    the 

priestly  call 
Left     Plague     her    banquet    in    the 
Ethiop's  hall, 
Nor  Famine  from  the  rich  man's  portal 
came, 


Where  at  her  ease  she  ever  preys  on 
all 
Who  throng  to  kneel   for   food :    nor 
fear  nor  shame 
Nor  faith,  nor  discord,   dimmed  hope's 
newly  kindled  flame. 

XVIII. 

"For  gold  was  as  a  god  whose  faith 
began 
To  fade,  so  that  its  worshippers  were 
few; 
And  Faith  itself,  which  in  the  heart  of 
man 
Gives  shape,  voice,  name,  to  spec- 
tral Terror,  knew 
Its  downfall,   as  the  altars  lonelier 
grew, 
Till  the  priests  stood  alone  within  the 
fane; 
The  shafts  of  Falsehood  unpolluting 
flew, 
And  the  cold  sneers  of  Calumny  were 
vain 
The   union   of  the   free  with  Discord's 
brand  to  stain. 


"The  rest  thou  knowest. — Lo  !    we 
two  are  here  — 
We  have  survived  a  ruin  wide  and 
deep  — 
Strange  thoughts  are  mine.  —  I  cannot 
grieve  or  fear; 
Sitting  with  thee   upon  this  lonely 

steep, 
I  smile,  though  human  love  should 
make  me  weep. 
We  have  survived  a  joy  that  knows  no 
sorrow, 
And   I   do   feel   a  mighty  calmness 
creep 
Over  my  heart,  which  can  no  longer 
borrow 
Its  hues  from  chance   or   change,  dark 
children  of  to-morrow. 


We   know   not    what   will    come — ■ 
yet,  Laon,  dearest, 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


t99 


Cythna  shall  be  the   prophetess  of 
Love; 
Her  lips  shall  rob  thee  of  the  grace 
thou  wearest, 
To  hide  thy  heart,  and  clothe  the 

shapes  which  rove 
Within  the  homeless  Future's  win- 
try grove; 
For   I  now,  sitting  thus  beside  thee, 
seem 
Even  with  thy  breath  and  blood  to 
live  and  move, 
And  violence  and  wrong  are  as  a  dream 
Which  rolls  from  steadfast  truth,  an  un- 
returning  stream. 


"The    blasts    of    Autumn    drive    the 
winged  seeds 
Over    the    earth,  —  next   come   the 
snows,  and  rain, 
And  frosts,  and  storms,  which  dreary 
Winter  leads 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage 

train; 
Behold !     Spring    sweeps    over    the 
world  again, 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  ethereal 
wings; 
Flowers    on    the    mountains,    fruits 
over  the  plain, 
And  music  on  the  waves  and  woods, 
she  flings, 
And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on 
lifeless  things. 


"O    Spring,    of    hope    and   love   and 
youth  and  gladness 
Wind-winged    emblem!     brightest, 
best,  and  fairest ! 
Whence   comest   thou   when  with    dark 
Winter's  sadness 
The  tears  that   fade  in  sunny  smiles 

thou  sharest  ? 
Sister   of    joy !    thou   art    the   child 
who  wearest 
Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and 
sweet; 
Thy    mother    Autumn,    for    whose 
grave  thou  bearest 


Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers, 
with  gentle  feet 
Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her 
winding-sheet. 


"  Virtue   and    Hope    and    Love,    like 
light  and  Heaven, 
Surround  the  world.     We  are  their 
chosen  slaves. 
Has  not  the  whirlwind  of   our  spirit 
driven 
Truth's  deathless  germs  to  Thought's 

remotest  caves? 
Lo,    Winter  comes!  —  the  grief   of 
many  graves, 
The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the 
sword, 
The   flood  of  tyranny,   whose   san- 
guine waves 
Stagnate  like  ice  at  Faith  the  enchan- 
ter's word, 
And  bind  all  human  hearts  in  its  repose 
abhorred ! 

XXIV. 

"The  seeds  are  sleeping  in  the  soil. 
Meanwhile 
The  Tyrant  peoples  dungeons  with 
his  prey, 
Pale  victims  on  the  guarded  scaffold 
smile 
Because   they   cannot   speak;     and, 

day  by  day, 
The  moon  of  wasting  Science  wanes 
away 
Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness 
vast 
The  sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols 
pray, 
And    gray   priests   triumph,   and    like 
blight  or  blast 
A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks 
is  cast. 

XXV. 

"  This  is  the  winter  of  the  world;  — 

and  here 
We    die,    even     as    the    winds    of 

Autumn  fade, 
Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air.  — 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


Behold  !   Spring  comes,  though  we 

XXVIII. 

must  pass  who  made 

The   promise   of   its  birth,   even  as 

"The  good  and  mighty  of  departed 

the  shade 

ages, 

Which    from    our    death,    as    from    a 

Are  in   their  graves,   the   innocent 

mountain,  flings 

and  free, 

The  future,   a  broad  sunrise;    thus 

Heroes,    and    Poets,    and    prevailing 

arrayed 

Sages, 

As  with  the  plumes  of  overshadowing 

Who    leave    the    vesture    of    their 

wings, 

majesty 

From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains  Earth  like 

To    adorn    and    clothe    this    naked 

an  eagle  springs. 

world;  —  and  we 

Are  like  to  them — such   perish,  but 

XXVI. 

they  leave 

All  hope,  or  love,  or  truth,  or  liberty 

"0  dearest  love!  we   shall  be  dead 

Whose  forms  their  mighty  spirits  could 

and  cold 

conceive, 

Before  this  morn  may  on  the  world 

To  be  a  rule  and  law  to  ages  that  sur- 

arise: 

vive. 

Wouldst  thou  the  glory  of   its   dawn 

behold? 

XXIX. 

Alas !    gaze   not    on    me,    but    turn 

thine  eyes 

"So   be    the  turf  heapt  over  our  re- 

On thine  own  heart  —  it  is  a  para- 

mains 

dise 

Even  in  our  happy  youth,  and  that 

Which   everlasting    Spring    has   made 

strange  lot, 

its  own, 

Whate'er  it  be,  when  in  these    min- 

And,  while   drear   winter    fills   the 

gling  veins 

naked  skies, 

The  blood  is  still,  be  ours;  let  sense 

Sweet  streams  of  sunny  thought,  and 

and  thought 

flowers  fresh-blown, 

Pass   from  our  being,   or  be   num- 

Are there,  and  weave  their  sounds  and 

bered  not 

odors  into  one. 

Among  the  things  that  are;    let  those 

who  come 

XXVII. 

Behind,  for  whom  our  steadfast  will 

has  bought 

"  In  their  own  hearts  the  earnest  of 

A  calm  inheritance,  a  glorious  doom, 

the  hope 

Insult  with  careless  tread  our  undivided 

Which  made  them  great  the   good 

tomb. 

will  ever  find; 

And,  though  some  envious  shades  may 

XXX. 

interlope 

Between  the  effect  and  it,  One  comes 

"  Our  many  thoughts  and  deeds,  our 

behind 

life  and  love, 

Who  aye  the  future  to  the  past  will 

Our  happiness,  and  all  that  we  have 

bind  — 

been, 

Necessity,  whose  sightless  strength  for 

Immortally   must   live   and    burn    and 

ever 

move 

Evil    with    evil,    good    with    good, 

When  we  shall  be  no  more;  — the 

must  wind 

world  has  seen 

In   bands  of   union   which   no  power 

A   type    of    peace;    and — -as   some 

may  sever : 

most  serene 

They  must  bring  forth  their  kind,  and 

And    lovely  spot   to  a   poor  maniac's 

be  divided  never  ! 

eye, 

THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


201 


After   long  years,   some  sweet   and 
moving  scene 
Of  youthful  hope,  returning  suddenly, 
Quells    his    long    madness  —  thus    man 
shall  remember  thee. 


"  And  Calumny  meanwhile  shall  feed 
on  us 
As    worms    devour    the    dead,    and 
near  the  throne 
And  at  the  altar  most  accepted  thus 
Shall  sneers  and  curses  be;  —  what 

we  have  done 
None  shall  dare  vouch,  though  it  be 
truly  known; 
That  record   shall  remain  when   they 
must  pass 
Who  built  their  pride  on  its  oblivion, 
And  fame,  in  human  hope  which  sculp- 
tured was, 
Survive  the  perished  scrolls  of  unendur- 
ing  brass. 


"The   while  we   two,   beloved,   must 
depart, 
And   Sense   and   Reason,  those   en- 
chanters fair 
Whose  wand  of  power  is  hope,  would 
bid  the  heart 
That  gazed  beyond  the  wormy  grave 

despair : 
These  eyes,   these  lips,   this  blood, 
seem  darkly  there 
To    fade    in    hideous  ruin  ;    no    calm 
sleep, 
Peopling   with    golden    dreams   the 
stagnant  air, 
Seems  our  obscure  and  rotting  eyes  to 
steep 
In  joy;  —  but  senseless  death  —  a  ruin 
dark  and  deep  ! 


"These    are    blind     fancies  —  reason 

cannot  know 
What    sense    can    neither    feel    nor 

thought  conceive; 
rhere   is  delusion  in  the  world,  and 

woe, 


And  fear,  and  pain  —  we  know  not 

whence  we  live, 
Or    why,    or    how,    or    what    mute 
Power  may  give 
Their  being  to  each  plant  and  star  and 
beast, 
Or    even    these    thoughts.  —  Come 
near  me  !   I  do  weave 
A    chain     I     cannot     break  —  I    am 
possest 
With  thoughts  too  swift  and  strong  for 
one  lone  human  breast. 


"  Yes,  yes  —  thy  kiss  is  sweet,  thy  lips 
are  warm  — 
Oh,  willingly,  beloved,  would  these 
eyes, 
Might  they  no  more  drink  being  from 

thy  form, 
Even    as    to    sleep   whence   we  again 
arise, 
Close   their   faint  orbs   in  death:    I 
fear  nor  prize 
Aught  that  can  now  betide,  unshared 
by  thee  — 
Yes,    Love,    when    Wisdom    fails, 
makes  Cythna  wise; 
Darkness  and  death,  if  death  be  true, 
must  be 
Dearer  than  life  and  hope  if  unenjoyed 
with  thee. 


"Alas,    our    thoughts    flow    on    with 
stream  whose  waters 
Return  not  to  their  fountain:    Earth 
and  Heaven, 
The  Ocean  and  the  Sun,  the  Clouds 
their  daughters, 
Winter  and  Spring,  and  Morn  and 

Noon  and  Even, 
All  that  we  are  or  know,  is  darkly 
driven 
Towards    one     gulf.  —  Lo  !    what    a 
change  is  come 
Since  I  first  spake  —  but  time  shall 
be  forgiven 
Though    it    change    all    but    thee!" 
She  ceased  —  night's  gloom 
Meanwhile    had    fallen  on   earth  frcrs 
the  sky's  sunless  dome. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


xxxvi. 

Though  she  had  ceased,  her   counte- 
nance, uplifted 
To  Heaven,  still  spake,  with  solemn 
glory  bright; 
Her  dark  deep  eyes,  her  lips  whose 
motions  gifted 
The    air    they  breathed  with   love, 

her  locks  undight. 
"  Fair  star  of  life  and  love,"  I  cried, 
"  my  soul's  delight, 
Why   lookest  thou  on  the    crystalline 
skies? 
Oh,  that  my  spirit  were  yon  Heaven 
of  night 
Which  gazes  on  thee  with  its  thousand 
eyes !  ' ' 
She    turned    to   me  and   smiled  —  that 
smile  was  Paradise ! 


CANTO   X. 

I. 

Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed, 
That  thus  with  his  proud  voice,  ere 
night  was  gone, 
He  broke  our   linked  rest?  or  do  in- 
deed 
All  living  things  a  common  nature 

own, 
And    thought    erect    an     universal 
throne, 
Where  many  shapes  one  tribute  ever 
bear? 
And    Earth,    their    mutual   mother, 
does  she  groan 
To  see  her  sons  contend?  and  makes 
she  bare 
Her  breast,  that  all  in  peace  its  drain- 
less  stores  may  share? 


I    have    heard    friendly  sounds    from 
many  a  tongue 
Which  was  not    human — the  lone 
nightingale 

Has  answered  me  with  her  most  sooth- 
ing song 


Out  of  her  ivy  bower,  when  I  sate 

pale 
With    grief,    and    sighed    beneath; 
from  many  a  dale 
The    antelopes   who    flockt    for    food 
have  spoken 
With    happy   sounds    and   motions 
that  avail 
Like  man's  own  speech:  and  such  was 
now  the  token 
Of  waning  night,  whose  calm  by  that 
proud  neigh  was  broken. 


in. 


Each    night,  that   mighty  steed   bore 
me  abroad, 
And    I    returned   with   food   to  our 
retreat, 
And    dark    intelligence  ;     the    blood 
which  flowed 
Over    the    fields    had    stained    the 

courser's  feet; 
Soon  the  dust  drinks  that  bitter  dew, 
—  then  meet 
The  vulture  and  the  wild  dog  and  the 
snake, 
The  wolf  and  the  hyena  gray,  and 
eat 
The  dead  in  horrid  truce:  their  throngs 
did  make, 
Behind  the  steed,  a  chasm  like  waves  in 
a  ship's  wake. 


IV. 


For  from  the  utmost  realms  of  earth 
came  pouring 
The  banded  slaves  whom  every  des- 
pot sent 
At    that    throned   traitor's    summons; 
like  the  roaring 
Of  fire,  whose  floods  the  wild  deer 

circumvent 
In  the  scorcht  pastures  of  the  south, 
so  bent 
The  armies  of  the  leagued  kings  around 
Their  files  of  steel  and  flame;  — the 
continent 
Trembled,    as    with    a    zone   of    ruin 
bound, 
Beneath  their  feet,  the  sea  shook  with 
their  navies'  sound. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


203 


From  every  nation  of  the  earth  they 
came, 
The  multitude  of  moving  heartless 
things 
Whom    slaves    call    men:     obediently 
they  came, 
Like  sheep  whom  from  the  fold  the 

shepherd  brings 
To  the  stall,  red  with  blood;    their 
many  kings 
Led  them  thus  erring  from  their  native 
land,  — 
Tartar  and  Frank,  and  millions  whom 
the  wings 
Of  Indian   breezes    lull,    and  many  a 
band 
The  Arctic  Anarch  sent,  and  Idumea's 
sand, 


Fertile    in   prodigies    and   lies.  —  So 
there 
Strange  natures  made  a  brotherhood 
of  ill. 
The   desert  savage   ceased  to  grasp  in 
fear 
His  Asian  shield  and  bow  when,  at 

the  will 
Of   Europe's   subtler   son,   the  bolt 
would  kill 
Some  shepherd  sitting  on  a  rock   se- 
cure ; 
But  smiles  of  wondering  joy  his  face 
would  fill, 
And    savage    sympathy:    those   slaves 
impure 
Each  one  the  other  thus  from  ill  to  ill 
did  lure. 


For  traitorously  did  that  foul  Tyrant 
robe 

His  countenance  in  lies,  —  even  at 
the  hour 
When  he   was    snatcht    from    death, 
then  o'er  the  globe, 

With  secret  signs  from  many  a  moun- 
tain-tower, 

With  smoke  by  day  and  fire  by  night 
the  power 


Of  kings  and  priests,  those  dark  con- 
spirators, 
He  called: — they  knew  his  cause 
their  own,  and  swore 
Like  wolves  and  serpents  to  their  mu- 
tual wars 
Strange   truce,  with  many  a  rite  which 
Earth  and  Heaven  abhors. 


Myriads  had  come —  millions  were  on 
their  way; 
The    Tyrant    past,     surrounded    by 
the  steel 
Of  hired  assassins,  through  the  public 
way, 
Chokt   with  his  country's  dead;  — 

his  footsteps  reel 
On    the    fresh    blood  —  he    smiles. 
"  Ay,  now  I  feel 
I  am  a  king  in   truth  !  "  he  said,   and 
took 
His  royal  seat,  and  bade  the  tortur- 
ing wheel 
Be  brought,  and  fire,  and  pincers,  and 
the  hook, 
And  scorpions,  that  his  soul  on  its  re- 
venge might  look. 

IX. 

"But  first    go  slay  the  rebels  —  why 
return 
The  victor  bands?  "  he  said.     "  Mil- 
lions yet  live, 
Of  whom  the  weakest  with  one  word 
might  turn 
The  scales  of  victory  yet;   let  none 

survive 
But  those  within  the  walls  —  each 
fifth  shall  give 
The  expiation  for  his  brethren,  here. — 
Go  forth,   and  waste  and  kill."  — 
"  O  king,  forgive 
My  speech,"  a  soldier  answered;  "  but 
we  fear 
The  spirits  of    the  night,   and  morn  is 
drawing  near; 

x. 

"For  we  were    slaying   still  without 
remorse, 


204 


THE   REVOLT  0E  ISLAM. 


And  now  that  dreadful  chief  beneath 
my  hand 
Defenceless  lay,  when  on  a  hell-black 
horse 
An  Angel  bright   as  day,  waving  a 

brand 
Which     flasht     among     the     stars, 
past.". —  "Dost  thou  stand 
Parleying    with    me,    thou    wretch?" 
the  king  replied. 
"Slaves,   bind   him   to  the    wheel; 
and  of  this  band 
Whoso  will  drag  that  woman  to  his  side 
That  scared  him  thus  may  burn  his  dear- 
est foe  beside; 


"And  gold  and  glory  shall  be  his. — 
Go  forth!  " 
They  rusht  into  the   plain.  —  Loud 
was  the  roar 
Of  their  career :   the  horsemen  shook 
the  earth; 
The  wheeled    artillery's   speed    the 

pavement  tore; 
The  infantry,  file  after  file,  did  pour 
Their  clouds  on  the  utmost  hills.     Five 
days  they  slew 
Among  the  wasted  fields;    the  sixth 
saw  gore 
Stream  through  the  city;  on  the  sev- 
enth the  dew 
Of    slaughter   became    stiff,    and   there 
was  peace  anew : 

XII. 

Peace  in  the  desert  fields  and  villages, 

Between    the    glutted    beasts    and 

mangled  dead  ! 

Peace  in  the  silent  streets  !   save  when 

the  cries 

Of  victims,  to   their  fiery    judgment 

led, 
Made  pale  their  voiceless  lips  who 
seemed  to  dread, 
Even    in    their    dearest    kindred,   lest 
some  tongue 
Be    faithless  to   the  fear  yet  unbe- 
trayed : 
Peace   in   the  Tyrant's   palace,  where 
the  throng 


Waste  the   triumphal  hours  in   festival 
and  song ! 


Day  after  day  the  burning  sun  rolled 
on 
Over   the   death-polluted    land  —  it 
came 
Out  of  the  east  like   fire,  and  fiercely 
shone 
A  lamp  of  autumn,  ripening  with  its 

flame 
The  few  lone   ears   of  corn;  — the 
sky  became 
Stagnate  with  heat,  so  that  each  cloud 
and  blast 
Languisht  and  died,  —  the  thirsting 
air  did  claim 
All  moisture,  and  a  rotting  vapor  past 
From  the  unburied  dead,  invisible  and 
fast. 


First  Want,  then  Plague,  came  on  the 
beasts;    their  food 
Failed,   and   they  drew   the  breath 
of  its  decay. 
Millions  on  millions,  whom  the  scent 
of  blood 
Had  lured,  or  who  from  regions  far 

away 
Had   tracked    the   hosts   in  festival 
array, 
From   their    dark   deserts,    gaunt    and 
wasting  now, 
Stalkt  like  fell  shades  among  their 
perisht  prey; 
In  their  green   eyes  a  strange  disease 
did  glow, 
They  sank  in  hideous  spasm,  or  pains 
severe  and  slow. 


The  fish  were  poisoned  in  the  streams; 
the  birds 
In    the  green    woods    perisht;     the 
insect  race 
Was  withered  up;   the  scattered  flocks 
and  herds 
Who  had  survived  the  wild  beasts' 
hungry  chase 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Died     moaning,     each     upon     the 
other's  face 
In  helpless  agony  gazing;    round  the 
City 
All   night  the  lean  hyenas  their  sad 
case 
Like  starving  infants  wailed  —  a  woe- 
ful ditty  ! 
And  many  a  mother  wept,  pierced  with 
unnatural  pity. 


Amid  the  aerial  minarets  on  high 
The    Ethiopian    vultures    fluttering 
fell 
From  their  long   line  of   brethren   in 
the  sky, 
Startling  the  concourse  of  mankind. 

- — Too  well 
These  signs  the  coming  mischief  did 
foretell :  — 
Strange  panic  first,  a  deep  and  sicken- 
ing dread, 
Within  each  heart,  like  ice,  did  sink 
and  dwell, 
A  voiceless  thought  of  evil,  which  did 
spread 
With    the   quick    glance   of    eyes,    like 
withering  lightnings  shed. 


XVII. 

Day  after  day,  when  the  year  wanes, 
the  frosts 
Strip  its  green  crown  of  leaves,  till 
all  is  bare; 
So  on  those  strange  and  congregated 
hosts 
Came  Famine,  a  swift  shadow,  and 

the  air 
Groaned  with  the  burden  of  a  new 
despair; 
Famine,  than  whom  Misrule  no  dead- 
lier daughter 
Feeds   from   her   thousand   breasts, 
though  sleeping  there 
With  lidless  eyes  lie  Faith  and  Plague 
and  Slaughter, 
A  ghastly  brood  conceived  of  Lethe's 
sullen  water. 


There    was    no    food  ;    the   corn   was 
trampled  down, 
The  flocks  and   herds  had  perisht; 
on  the  shore 
The   dead   and   putrid  fish  were  ever 
thrown : 
The  deeps  were    foodless,   and  the 

winds  no  more 
Creaked   with   the   weight   of  birds, 
but,  as  before 
Those    winged    things    sprang    forth, 
were  void  of  shade; 
The  vines  and  orchards,  Autumn's 
golden  store, 
Were   burned;     so   that    the    meanest 
food  was  weighed 
With  gold,  and  Avarice  died  before  the 
god  it  made. 


There    was    no    corn  —  in    the    wide 
market-place 
All   loathliest    things,    even  human 
flesh,  was  sold; 
They  weighed  it  in  small  scales  —  and 
many  a  face 
Was  fixt  in  eager  horror  then;    his 

gold 
The  miser  brought;  the  tender  maid, 
grown  bold 
Through    hunger,   bared  her   scorned 
charms  in  vain; 
The  mother  brought  her  eldest-born, 
controlled 
By  instinct  blind  as  love,  but  turned 
again, 
And  bade  her  infant  suck,  and  died  in 
silent  pain. 


Then  fell  blue  Plague  upon  the  race 
of  man. 
"  Oh,  for  the  sheathed  steel,  so  late 
which  gave 
Oblivion  to  the  dead  when  the  streets 
ran 
With  brothers'  blood  !   Oh,  that  the 

earthquake's  grave 
Would  gape,  or  ocean  lift  its  stifling 
wave  !  ' ' 


206 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Vain    cries — throughout    the    streets, 
thousands,  pursued 
Each  by  his  fiery  torture,  howl  and 
rave, 
Or  sit  in  frenzy's  unimagined  mood 
Upon  fresh  heaps  of  dead  —  a  ghastly 
multitude. 


It  was  not   hunger   now,   but    thirst. 
Each  well 
Was  choked   with   rotting  corpses, 
and  became 
A  caldron  of  green  mist  made  visible 
At   sunrise.     Thither  still  the  myr- 
iads came, 
Seeking  to  quench  the  agony  of  the 
flame 
Which  raged  like  poison  through  their 
bursting  veins; 
Naked  they  were  from  torture,  with- 
out shame, 
Spotted  with  nameless  scars  and  lurid 
blains, 
Childhood,  and  youth,  and  age,  writhing 
in  savage  pains. 

XXII. 

It  was  not  thirst  but  madness  !     Many 
saw 
Their  own  lean  image  everywhere; 
it  went 
A  ghastlier  self  beside  them,  till  the 
awe 
Of  that  dread  sight  to  self-destruc- 
tion sent 
Those  shrieking  victims;   some,  ere 
life  was  spent, 
Sought,   with   a  horrid  sympathy,   to 
shed 
Contagion  on  the  sound;    and  others 
rent 
Their  matted   hair,   and   cried   aloud, 
"  We  tread 
On  fire  !  the  avenging  Power  his  hell 
on  earth  has  spread  !  " 

XXIII. 

Sometimes    the    living    by    the    dead 
were  hid. 


Near  the  great  fountain  in  the  public 
square, 
Where     corpses    made    a    crumbling 
pyramid 
Under    the    sun,     was    heard    one 

stifled  prayer 
For  life,  in  the   hot   silence  of  the 
air; 
And  strange   't  was  mid  that   hideous 
heap  to  see 
Some   shrouded  in   their   long    and 
golden  hair, 
As     if     not     dead,     but     slumbering 
quietly, 
Like  forms  which  sculptors  carve,  then 
love  to  agony. 


Famine  had  spared  the  palace  of  the 
King :  — 
He  rioted  in  festival  the  while, 
He   and   his  guards    and  priests;   but 
Plague  did  fling 
One  shadow  upon  all.     Famine  can 

smile 
On    him    who   brings  it    food,   and 
pass,  with  guile 
Of  thankful  falsehood,  like  a  courtier 
gray, 
The   house-dog   of  the  throne;   but 
many  a  mile 
Comes    Plague,    a  winged  wolf,   who 
loathes  alway 
The  garbage  and  the  scum  that  strangers 
make  her  prey. 

XXV. 

So,  near  the  throne,  amid  the  gorgeous 
feast, 
Sheathed    in    resplendent   arms,   or 
loosely  dight 
To   luxury,   ere   the    mockery  yet   had 
ceast 
That     lingered     on     his     lips,     the 

warrior's  might 
Was     loosened,     and    a     new     and 
ghastlier  night 
In  dreams  of  frenzy  lapt  his  eyes;  he 
fell 
Headlong,  or  with  stiff  eyeballs  sate 
upright 


THE  RE  VOL  T  OF  ISLAM. 


207 


Among  the  guests,  or  raving  mad  did 
tell 
Strange   truths,   a  dying  seer    of    dark 
oppression's  hell. 


XXVI. 

The  Princes  and  the  Priests  were  pale 
with  terror; 
That  monstrous  faith  wherewith  they 
ruled  mankind 
Fell,  like  a  shaft  loosed  by  the  bow- 
man's error, 
On  their  own  hearts :   they  sought, 

and  they  could  find 
No   refuge  —  'twas   the  blind   who 
led  the  blind. 
So  through  the  desolate  streets  to  the 
high  fane 
The    many-tongued     and     endless 
armies  wind 
In    sad   procession:    each   among  the 
train 
To  his  own  Idol  lifts  his  supplications 
vain. 

XXVII. 

"O    God!"   they    cried,   "we  know 
our  secret  pride 
Has  scorned  thee,  and  thy  worship, 
and  thy  name; 
Secure    in    human    power,   we    have 
defied 
Thy  fearful  night;    we  bend  in  fear 

and  shame 
Before  thy  presence;    with  the  dust 
we  claim 
Kindred  ;     be    merciful,    O    King    of 
Heaven  ! 
Most  justly  have  we  suffered  for  thy 
fame 
Made  dim,  but  be  at  length  our  sins 
forgiven, 
Ere  to  despair  and  death  thy  worship- 
pers be  driven. 

XXVIII. 

"O   King    of  glory!  thou  alone  hast 
power ! 
Who  can  resist  thy  will?  who  can 
restrain 


Thy  wrath  when    on  the  guilty  thou 
dost  shower 
The  shafts  of  thy  revenge,  a  blister- 
ing rain? 
Greatest  and  best,  be  merciful  again  ! 
Have  we  not  stabbed  thine  enemies? 
and  made 
The  Earth  an  altar,  and  the  Heavens 
a  fane, 
Where  thou  wert  worshipt  with  their 
blood,  and  laid 
Those  hearts  in  dust  which  would  thy 
searchless  works  have  weighed? 


"  Well  didst  thou  loosen  on  this  im- 
pious City 
Thine    angels    of    revenge  :     recall 
them  now; 
Thy  worshippers,  abased,  here  kneel 
for  pity, 
And  bind  their  souls  by  an  immor- 
tal vow: 
We  swear  by  thee  !  and  to  our  oath 
do  thou 
Give  sanction  from  thine  hell  of  fiends 
and  flame, 
That  we  will  kill  with  fire  and  tor- 
ments slow 
The  last  of  those  who  mockt  thy  holy 
name, 
And     scorned     the    sacred     laws    thy 
prophets  did  proclaim." 


Thus  they  with   trembling  limbs  and 
pallid  lips 
Worshipt  their  own  hearts'  image, 
dim  and  vast, 
Scared  by  the  shade  wherewith  they 
would  eclipse 
The  light  of  other  minds;  —  troubled 

they  past 
From  the  great  Temple;  — fiercely 
still  and  fast 
The  arrows  of  the  plague  among  them 
fell, 
And    they   on    one    another   gazed 
aghast, 
And    through    the    hosts    contention 
wild  befel, 


208 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


As  each  of  his  own  god  the  wondrous 
works  did  tell. 


And  Oromaze,  Joshua,  and  Mahomet, 

Moses    and    Buddh,    Zerdusht    and 

Brahm  and  Foh, 

A   tumult    of    strange    names,    which 

never  met 

Before    as    watchwords  of   a  single 

woe, 
Arose;    each   raging  votary  'gan  to 
throw 
Aloft   his  armed  hands,  and  each  did 
howl 
"Our  God  alone  is  God!  "  —  And 
slaughter  now 
Would    have  gone   forth,  when  from 

beneath  a  cowl 
A.  voice  came   forth  which  pierced  like 
ice  through  every  soul. 

XXXII. 

"Twas  an  Iberian  priest  from  whom  it 
came, 
A  zealous  man  who  led  the  legioned 
West, 
With  words  which  faith  and  pride  had 
steeped  in  flame, 
To    quell    the  unbelievers  ;    a   dire 

guest 
Even  to  his  friends  was  he,  for  in 
his  breast 
Did  hate  and  guile  lie  watchful,  inter- 
twined, 
Twin    serpents    in    one    deep    and 
winding  nest; 
He  loathed  all   faith  beside  his  own, 

and  pined 
fo  wreak  his  fear  of  Heaven  in   ven- 
geance on  mankind. 

xxxm. 

But   more  he  loathed    and  hated  the 
clear  light 
Of   wisdom  and  free   thought,   and 
more  did  fear 
Lest,   kindled   once,   its  beams  might 
pierce  the  night, 
Even  where  his  Idol  stood;    for  far 
and  near 


Did  many  a  heart  in  Europe  leap  to 
hear 
That  faith  and  tyranny  were  trampled 
down; 
Many  a  pale  victim  doomed  for  truth 
to  share 
The  murderer's  cell,  or  see  with  help- 
less groan 
The  priests  his  children  drag  for  slaves 
to  serve  their  own. 

xxxiv. 

He  dared  not  kill  the  infidels  with  fire 
Or  steel,  in  Europe;    the  slow  ago- 
nies 
Of  legal   torture    mockt  his  keen  de- 
sire: 
So  he  made   truce  with  those   who 

did  despise 
The  expiation  and  the  sacrifice, 
That,  though  detested,  Islam's  kindred 
creed 
Might  crush  for  him   those   deadlier 
enemies; 
For    fear    of    God   did  in   his    bosom 
breed 
A  jealous  hate  of  man,   an  unreposing 
need. 

xxxv. 

"  Peace,  peace!  "  he  cried.      "When 
we  are  dead,  the  day 
Of    judgment  comes,    and   all   shall 
surely  know 
Whose    God    is    God,    each    fearfully 
shall  pay 
The   errors   of    his   faith    in   endless 

woe  ! 
But  there  is  sent  a  mortal  vengeance 
now 
On    earth,    because    an    impious    race 
had  spurned 
Him  whom  we  all  adore,  — a  subtle 
foe, 
By  whom  for  ye  this  dread  reward  was 
earned, 
And  kingly  thrones,  which  rest  on  faith, 
nigh  overturned. 

xxxvi. 

"  Think  ye,  because  ye  weep  and  kneel 
and  pray, 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


209 


That  God  will  lull  the   pestilence? 
It  rose 
Even  from  beneath  his  throne,  where, 
many  a  day, 
His  mercy  soothed  it  to  a  dark  re- 
pose : 
It  walks  upon  the  earth  to  judge  his 
foes; 
And  what  are  thou  and  I,  that  he  should 
deign 
To  curb  his  ghastly  minister,  or  close 
The  gates  of  death  ere  they  receive  the 
twain 
Who  shook  with  mortal  spells  his  unde- 
fended reign? 


"Ay,   there  is   famine  in  the   gulf   of 
hell, 
Its    giant    worms   of    fire    for'  ever 
yawn,  — 
Their  lurid   eyes   are  on   us !      Those 
who  fell 
By  the  swift  shafts  of  pestilence  ere 

dawn 
Are  in  their  jaws  !     They  hunger  for 
the  spawn 
Of    Satan,    their    own    brethren    who 
were  sent 
To  make  our  souls  their  spoil.     See  ! 
see  !  they  fawn 
Like  dogs,  and  they  will   sleep,  with 
luxury  spent, 
When  those  detested  hearts  their  iron 
fangs  have  rent ! 


"  Our  God  may  then  lull  Pestilence  to 

sleep: 

Pile  high  the  pyre  of  expiation  now, 

A  forest's  spoil  of  boughs,  and  on  the 

heap 

Pour  venomous  gums,  which  sullenly 

and  slow, 
When  touched  by  flame,  shall  burn 
and  melt  and  flow, 
A  stream  of    clinging   fire,  —  and  fix 
on  high 
A  net  of  iron,  and  spread  forth  be- 
low 
A  couch  of  snakes  and  scorpions,  and 
the  fry 


Of  centipedes  and  worms,  earth's  hell- 
ish progeny. 

XXXIX. 

"  Let  Laon  and  Laone  on  that  pyre, 
Linkt    tight    with    burning    brass, 
perish  !  — then  pray 
That,  with  this  sacrifice,  the  withering 
ire 
Of  Heaven  maybe  appeased."      He 

ceased,  and  they 
A  space  stood  silent,  as  far,  faraway 
The   echoes  of  his  voice   among  them 
died  ; 
And  he  knelt  down  upon  the  dust, 
alway 
Muttering  the  curses  of  his  speechless 
pride, 
Whilst    shame   and    fear   and  awe  the 
armies  did  divide. 


His  voice  was  like  a  blast  that  burst 
the  portal 
Of  fabled  hell;    and,   as  he  spake, 
each  one 
Saw  gape  beneath  the  chasms  of  fire 
immortal, 
And  Heaven  above  seemed  cloven, 

where,  on  a  throne 
Girt  round  with  storms  and  shadows,, 
sate  alone 
Their  King  and  Judge.  —  Fear  killed  in 
every  breast 
All    natural    pity   then,    a    fear    un- 
known 
Before,  and,  with  an  inward  fire  pos- 
sest, 
They  raged  like  homeless  beasts  whom 
burning  woods  invest. 


'T  was    morn.  —  At    noon    the    public 
crier  went  forth, 
Proclaiming  through  the  living  and 
the  dead, 
"The    Monarch    saith   that    his   great 
empire's  worth 
Is  set  on  Laon  and  Laone's  head: 
He  who  but  one  yet  living  here  can 
lead, 


2IO 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Or  who  the  life  from  both  their  hearts 
can  wring, 
Shall  be  the  kingdom's  heir  —  a  glo- 
rious meed  ! 
But    he    who    both    alive    can    hither 
bring 
The  Princess  shall  espouse,  and  reign 
an  equal  King." 


Ere  night  the  pyre  was  piled,  the  net 
of  iron 
Was  spread  above,  the  fearfC  _'ouch 
below; 
It    overtopt   the    towers  that    did  en- 
viron 
That   spacious   square,    for  Fear  is 

never  slow 
To  build  the   thrones  of  Hate,  her 
mate  and  foe, 
So  she  scourged  forth  the  maniac  mul- 
titude 
To  rear  this  pyramid  —  tottering  and 
slow, 
Plague-stricken,     foodless,    like    lean 
herds  pursued 
By  gadflies,  they  have  piled  the  heath 
and  gums  and  wood. 


Night  came,  a  starless  and  a  moonless 
gloom. 
Until  the  dawn,  those  hosts  of  many 
a  nation 
Stood   round  that    pile,   as    near   one 
lover's  tomb 
Two  gentle  sisters  mourn  their  deso- 
lation: 
And  in  the  silence  of  that  expecta- 
tion 
Was  heard  on  high  the  reptiles'  hiss 
and  crawl  — 
It    was    so    deep  —  save    when   the 
devastation 
Of  the  swift  pest,  with  fearful  interval, 
Marking  its  path  with  shrieks,  among 
the  crowd  would  fall. 


Morn  came, — among  those  sleepless 
multitudes. 


Madness,  and  Fear,  and  Plague,  and 
Famine,  still 
Heapt    corpse  on   corpse,    as    in    au- 
tumnal woods 
The    frosts   of   many   a  wind  with 

dead  leaves  fill 
Earth's  cold  and  sullen  brooks;    in 
silence,  still 
The*  pale  survivors  stood  ;   ere  noon, 
the  fear 
Of  Hell  became  a  panic,  which  did 
kill 
Like  hunger  or  disease,  with  whispers 
drear, 
As  "  Plush  !  hark  !   Come  they  yet  ?  Just 
Heaven  !  thine  hour  is  near  !  " 

XLV. 

And     priests     rushed     through     their 
ranks,  some  counterfeiting 
The    rage    they    did    inspire,    some 
mad  indeed 
With  their  own  lies;    they  said  their 
god  was  waiting 
To  see  his  enemies  writhe  and  burn 

and  bleed,  — 
And  that,  till   then,  the  snakes  of 
hell  had  need 
Of     human     souls: — three     hundred 
furnaces 
Soon  blazed  through  the  wide  City, 
where,  with  speed, 
Men  brought  their  infidel  kindred  to 
appease 
God's  wrath,  and,  while  they  burned, 
knelt  round  on  quivering  knees. 


The  noontide  sun  was  darkened  with 
that  smoke, 
The    winds     of    eve    disperst    those 
ashes  gray. 
The  madness    which    these    rites   had 
lulled  awoke 
Again  at  sunset.  —  Who  shall  dare 

to  say 
The    deeds    which    night    and    fear 
brought  forth,  or  weigh 
In    balance    just    the   good    and    evil 
there  ? 
He  might  man's  deep  and  search- 
less  heart  display, 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


211 


And  cast  a  light  on  those  dim  laby- 
rinths where 
Hope  near  imagined  chasms  is  strug- 
gling with  despair. 


'T  is    said,    a    mother    dragged    three 
children  then 
To  those  fierce  flames  which  roast 
the  eyes  in  the  head, 
And  laught  and    died;    and    that  un- 
holy men, 
Feasting  like  fiends  upon  the  infidel 

dead, 
Looked  from  their  meal,   and  saw 
an  Angel  tread 
The  visible  floor  of  heaven,  and  it  was 
she ! 
And    on    that    night    one    without 
doubt  or  dread 
Came  to  the   fire  and  said,  "Stop,  I 
am  he ! 
Kill  me!" — They  burned  them  both 
with  hellish  mockery. 


And  one   by  one,   that   night,  young 
maidens  came, 
Beauteous  and  calm,  like  shapes  of 
living  stone 
Clothed  in  the   light  of   dreams,  and 
by  the  flame, 
Which  shrank  as  overgorged,  they 

laid  them  down, 
And    sung    a    low    sweet    song,    of 
which  alone 
One  word  was  heard,   and  that  was 
Liberty; 
And    that    some    kist    their   marble 
feet,  with  moan 
Like   love,   and  died;    and  then  that 
they  did  die 
With  happy  smiles,  which  sunk  in  white 
tranquillity. 

CANTO   XI. 

I. 

She  saw  me  not  —  she  heard  me  not 
—  alone 
Upon  the  mountain's  dizzy  brink  she 
stood; 


She  spake   not,   breathed   not,  moved 
not —  there  was  thrown 
Over  her  look  the  shadow  of  a  mood 
Which    only   clothes   the    heart    in 
solitude, 
A  thought  of  voiceless  depth;  — she 
stood  alone; 
Above,  the  heavens  were  spread;  — 
below,  the  flood 
Was   murmuring  in   its   caves  ;  —  the 
wind  had  blown 
Her  hair  apart,  through  which  her  eyes 
and  forehead  shone. 


A  cloud  was  hanging  o'er  the  western 
mountains; 
Before  its  blue  and  moveless  depth 
were  flying 
Gray  mists  poured  forth  from  the  un- 
resting fountains 
Of    darkness    in    the    north:  — the 

day  was  dying :  — 
Sudden,    the    sun   shone    forth,   its 
beams  were  lying 
Like  boiling  gold   on   ocean,  strange 
to  see, 
And  on  the  shattered  vapors  which, 
defying 
The     power    of    light    in    vain,    tost 
restlessly 
In  the  red   Heaven,   like  wrecks  in  a 
tempestuous  sea. 

in. 

It  was  a  stream  of  living  beams,  whose 
bank 
On  either  side  by  the  cloud's  cleft 
was  made; 
And,   where  its  chasms  that   flood  of 
glory  drank, 
Its  waves  gusht  forth  like  fire,  and, 

as  if  swayed 
By   some    mute    tempest    rolled  on 
her  ;  the  shade 
Of   her   bright   image   floated    on   the 
river 
Of  liquid  light,  which  then  did  end 
and  fade  — 
Her  radiant  shape  upon  its  verge  did 
shiver; 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Aloft,  her  flowing  hair  like  strings  of 
flame  did  quiver. 


I  stood  beside   her,  but  she  saw  me 

not  — 
She  lookt  upon  the  sea,  and  skies, 
and  earth; 
Rapture     and     love     and    admiration 
wrought 
A  passion  deeper  far  than   tears  or 

mirth, 
Or   speech  or  gesture,  or   whate'er 
has  birth 
From    common   joy;    which    with  the 
speechless  feeling 
That  led  her  there  united,  and  shot 
forth 
From  her  far  eyes  a  light  of  deep  re- 
vealing, 
All  but  her  dearest  self  from  my  regard 
concealing. 


v. 

Her  lips  were  parted,  and  the  measured 
breath 
Was  now  heard  there;  — her  dark 
and  intricate  eyes, 
Orb  within  orb,  deeper  than  sleep  or 
death, 
Absorbed  the  glories  of  the  burning 

skies, 
Which,   mingling  with    her   heart's 
deep  ecstasies, 
Burst  from  her  looks  and  gestures;  — 
and  a  light 
Of  liquid  tenderness,  like  love,  did 
rise 
From  her  whole   frame,  —  an  atmos- 
phere which  quite 
Arrayed  her  in  its  beams,  tremulous  and 
soft  and  bright. 


She  would  have  claspt  me  to  her  glow- 
ing frame; 
Those  warm  and  odorous  lips  might 
soon  have  shed 

On  mine  the  fragrance  and   the  invisi- 
ble flame 


Which  now  the  cold  winds  stole;  — 

she  would  have  laid 
Upon  my  languid  heart  her  dearest 
head; 
I  might  have  heard  her  voice,  tender 
and  sweet; 
Her  eyes,  mingling  with  mine,  might 
soon  have  fed 
My   soul  with   their  own    joy.  —  One 
moment  yet 
I  gazed  —  we  parted  then,  never  again 
to  meet ! 


VII. 


Never    but    once    to    meet    on    Earth 
again  ! 
She  heard  me  as  I  fled — her  eager 
tone 
Sunk   on  my  heart,   and  almost  wove 
a  chain 
Around  my  will  to  link  it  with  her 

own, 
So  that  my  stern  resolve  was  almost 
gone. 
"I   cannot  reach   thee!  whither  dost 
thou  fly? 
My  steps  are   faint.  —  Come  back, 
thou  dearest  one  — 
Return,  ah  me!   return!"     The  wind 
past  by 
On  which  those  accents  died,  faint,  far, 
and  lingeringly. 


Woe  !  Woe  !  that  moonless  midnight ! 

—  Want  and  Pest 

Were    horrible,   but  one    more   fell 

doth  rear, 

As  in  a  hydra's  swarming  lair,  its  crest 

Eminent     among     those     victims  — ■ 

even  the  Fear 
Of    Hell  :    each     girt    by    the     hot 
atmosphere 
Of    his   blind    agony,  like  a  scorpion 
stung 
By  his  own   rage  upon  his  burning 
bier 
Of    circling    coals    of    fire;    but    still 
there  clung 
One  hope,  like  a  keen  sword  on  starting 
threads  uphung :  — 


THE   REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


Not  death  —  death  was  no  more  refuge 
or  rest; 
Not  life  —  it  was  despair  to  be  !  — 
not  sleep, 
For  fiends  and  chasms  of  fire  had  dis- 
possest 
All    natural  dreams;    to    wake  was 

not  to  weep, 
But  to  gaze,  mad  and  pallid,  at  the 
leap 
To    which    the    Future,   like  a    snaky 
scourge, 
Or  like  some  tyrant's  eye  which  aye 
doth  keep 
Its   withering    beam  upon    its    slaves, 
did  urge 
Their  steps :  —  they  heard  the  roar  of 
Hell's  sulphureous  surge. 


Each    of   that   multitude,   alone,   and 
lost 
To  sense    of    outward    things,    one 
hope  yet  knew; 
As  on  a  foam-girt  crag  some  seaman 
tost 
Stares  at  the  rising  tide,  or  like  the 

crew 
Whilst    now    the    ship    is    splitting 
through  and  through; 
Each,  if  the  tramp  of  a  far  steed  was  I 
heard, 
Started  from  sick  despair,  or  if  there 
flew 
One  murmur  on  the  wind,  or  if  some 
word, 
Which  none  can  gather  yet,  the  distant 
crowd  has  stirred. 


Why   became    cheeks,    wan  with  the 
kiss  of  death, 

Paler  from  hope?  they  had  sustained 
despair. 
Why  watcht   those   myriads  with  sus- 
pended breath, 

Sleepless    a    second    night?      They 
are  not  here, 

The   victims,   and  hour   by   hour,  a 
vision  drear,  I 


Warm  corpses  fall  upon  the  clay-cold 
dead; 
And   even   in    death    their   lips  are 
writhed  with  fear.  — 
The   crowd   is  mute   and   moveless  — 
overhead 
Silent  Arcturus  shines  —  "  Ha !  hear'st 
thou  not  the  tread 


"  Of  rushing  feet?  laughter?  the  shout, 
the  scream 
Of    triumph    not    to  be   contained? 
See  !  hark  ! 
They  come,   they  come  !  give  way!" 
Alas,  ye  deem 
Falsely  —  'tis  but  a  crowd  of  mani- 
acs stark, 
Driven,    like    a   troop    of   spectres, 
through  the  dark 
From  the  chokt  well,  whence  a  bright 
death-fire  sprung, 
A  lurid  earth-star  which  dropt  many 
a  spark 
From    its    blue   train,   and,   spreading 
widely,  clung 
To  their  wild   hair,  like  mist  the  top- 
most pines  among. 


And  many,  from  the  crowd  collected 

there, 

Joined  that  strange  dance  in  fearful 

sympathies; 

There  was  the  silence  of  a  long  despait 

When  the  last  echo  of  those  terrible 

cries 
Came    from    a    distant    street,    like 
agonies 
Stifled    afar. — Before    the    Tyrant's 
throne 
All  night  his  aged  senate  sate,  their 
eyes 
In  stony  expectation  fixt;  when  one 
Sudden  before  them  stood,  a  Stranger 
and  alone. 

XIV. 

Dark    priests    and    haughty   warriors 
gazed  on  him 


214 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


With  baffled  wonder,  for  a  hermit's 

Out  of  the  fears  and  hate  which  vain 

vest 

desires  have  brought. 

Concealed    his    face;   but,    when    he 

spake,  his  tone, 

Ere  yet  the  matter  did  their  thoughts 

XVII. 

arrest, — 

"Ye    seek    for    happiness — alas    the 

Earnest,  benignant,  calm,  as  from  a 

day  ! 
Ye  find  it  not  in  luxury  nor  in  gold, 

breast 

Void  of  all  hate  or  terror  —  made  them 

Nor  in   the   fame,    nor   in  the  envied 

start; 
For,    as  with  gentle  accents  he  ad- 

sway, 
For  which,  0  willing  slaves  to  Cus- 

drest 

tom  old, 

His  speech  to  them,  on  each  unwilling 

Severe  taskmistress,  ye  your  hearts 

heart 

have  sold. 

Unusual  awe  did  fall  —  a  spirit-quelling 

Ye  seek  for  peace,  and,  when  ye  die, 

dart. 

to  dream 

No  evil  dreams:    all  mortal  things 

XV. 

are  cold 

**  Ye    Princes    of    the    Earth,   ye   sit 
aghast 
Amid  the  ruin  which  yourselves  have 
made, 

And  senseless  then;    if  aught  survive, 
I  deem 
It  must  be  love  and  joy,    for  they  im- 
mortal seem. 

Yes,  Desolation  heard  your  trumpet's 

blast, 

XVIII. 

And  sprang  from  sleep  !  — dark  Ter- 

ror has  obeyed 

"  Fear  not  the  future,  weep  not  for  the 

Your  bidding.     Oh  that  I,  whom  ye 

past. 

have  made 

Oh  could  I  win  your  ears  to  dare 

Your  foe,  could  set  my  dearest  enemy 

be  now 

free 

Glorious  and  great  and  calm  !  that  ye 

From  pain  and  fear  !     But  evil  casts 

would  cast 

a  shade 

Into  the  dust  those  symbols  of  your 

Which  cannot  pass  so  soon,  and  Hate 

woe, 

must  be 

Purple,  and  gold,  and  steel !  that  ye 

The  nurse  and  parent  still  of  an  ill  pro- 

would go 

geny. 

Proclaiming  to  the  nations  whence  ye 

came 

XVI. 

That  Want,  and  Plague,  and  Fear, 

from  slavery  flow; 

'*  Ye  turn  to   Heaven  for  aid  in  your 

And  that  mankind  is  free,  and  that  the 

distress; 

shame 

Alas !  that  ye,  the  mighty  and  the 

Of  royalty  and  faith  is  lost  in  freedom's 

wise, 

fame  ! 

Who,   if    ye  dared,   might  not  aspire 

to  less 

XIX. 

Than  ye  conceive  of  power,  should 

fear  the  lies 

"  If  thus,  'tis  well:   if  not,  I  come  to 

Which  thou,  and  thou,  didst  frame 

say 

for  mysteries 

That  Laon — "  while  the  Stranger 

To  blind  your  slaves :  —  consider  your 

spoke,  among 

own  thought, 

The  council  sudden  tumult  and  affray 

An  empty  and  a  cruel  sacrifice 

Arose,    for   many  of  those   warriors 

Ye  now  prepare  for  a  vain  idol  wrought 

young 

THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


215 


Had  on  his  eloquent  accents  fed  and 
hung 
Like  bees  on  mountain-flowers:   they 
knew  the  truth, 
And   from   their  thrones  in  vindica- 
tion sprung; 
The  men  of  faith  and   law  then  with- 
out ruth 
Drew  forth  their  secret  steel,  and  stabbed 
each  ardent  youth. 


They  stabbed  them  in  the  back,  and 
sneered  —  a  slave 
Who  stood  behind  the  throne  those 
corpses  drew 
Each   to   its  bloody,  dark,  and  secret 
grave ; 
And  one  more  daring  raised  his  steel 

anew 
To    pierce   the    Stranger.      "  What 
hast  thou  to  do 
With  me,  poor  wretch?  "     Calm,  sol- 
emn, and  severe, 
That  voice  unstrung  his  sinews,  and 
he  threw 
His   dagger  on  the  ground,  and,  pale 
with  fear, 
Sate    silently  —  his  voice  then  did  the 
Stranger  rear. 


"  It  doth   avail  not  that   I  weep  for 
ye  — 
Ye  cannot  change,  since  ye  are  old 
and  gray, 
And  ye  have  chosen  your   lot  —  your 
fame  must  be 
A  book  of  blood,  whence  in  a  milder 

day 
Men  shall  learn  truth,  when  ye  are 
wrapt  in  clay: 
Now  ye  shall  triumph.     I  am  Laon's 
friend, 
And  him  to  your  revenge  will  I  be- 
tray, 
So  ye  concede  one  easy  boon.    Attend! 
For  now  I  speak  of  things  which  ye  can 
apprehend. 


"  There  is  a  People  mighty  in  its  youth, 
A  land   beyond  the   Oceans  of  the 
West, 
Where,  though  with  rudest  rites,  Free- 
dom and  Truth 
Are    worshipt.       From     a    glorious 

Mother's  breast 
Who,  since  high  Athens  fell,  among 
the  rest 
Sate  like  the  Queen  of  Nations,  but 
in  woe, 
By   inbred    monsters    outraged    and 
opprest, 
Turns  to  her  chainless  child  for  succor 
now, 
It  draws  the  milk  of  Power  in  Wisdom's 
fullest  flow. 


"That   land  is   like  an    eagle  whose 
young  gaze 
Feeds  on  the  noontide  beam,  whose 
golden  plume 
Floats  moveless  on  the  storm,  and  in 
the  blaze 
Of    sunrise    gleams   when    Earth  is 

wrapt  in  gloom; 
An  epitaph  of  glory  for  the  tomb 
Of  murdered  Europe  may  thy  fame  be 
made, 
Great   People  !     As  the  sands  shalt 
thou  become; 
Thy   growth    is    swift   as  morn    when 
night  must  fade; 
The  multitudinous  Earth  shall  sleep  be- 
neath thy  shade. 


XXIV. 

"  Yes,  in  the  desert,  then,  is  built  a 
home 

For  Freedom  !  Genius  is  made  strong 
to  rear 
The  monuments  of  man   beneath  the 
dome 

Of   a  new  Heaven;   myriads  assem- 
ble there 

Whom  the   proud   lords  of  man,  in 
rage  or  fear, 


2l6 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Drive  from  their  wasted  homes :    the 
boon  I  pray 
Is  this  —  that  Cythna  shall  be  con- 
voyed there, — 
Nay,  start  not  at  the  name  — America  ! 
And  then  to  you  this  night  Laon  will  I 
betray. 


"With  me  do  what  you  will.     I  am 
your  foe  !  " 
The  light  of  such  a  joy  as  makes  the 
stare 
Of  hungry  snakes  like  living  emeralds 
glow 
Shone  in  a  hundred  human  eyes.  — 

"  Where,  where 
Is   Laon?     Haste!    fly!    drag    him 
swiftly  here  ! 
We    grant    thy   boon."  —  "I  put    no 
trust  in  ye; 
Swear  by  the  Power  ye  dread."  — 
"  We  swear,  we  swear  !  " 
The  Stranger  threw  his  vest  back  sud- 
denly, 
And  smiled  in  gentle  pride,  and  said, 
"Lo!  I  am  he!" 


CANTO  XII. 


The  transport   of  a  fierce   and  mon 
strous  gladness 
Spread    through    the    multitudinous  | 
streets,  fast  flying 
Upon  the  winds  of  fear;  from  his  dull 
madness 
The    starveling  waked,  and    died  in 

joy;    the  dying, 
Among  the  corpses  in  stark  agony  ' 
lying,  _  I 

Just  heard  the  happy  tidings,  and  in  ! 
hope 
Closed  their  faint  eyes;    from  house 
to  house  replying 
With    loud   acclaim,   the  living  shook 
Heaven's  cope, 
And    filled    the    startled    Earth     with 
echoes:   morn  did  ope 


Its  pale  eyes  then;    and  lo !  the  long 

array 
Of    guards    in    golden    arms,    and 
priests  beside, 
Singing    their    bloody    hymns,   whose 
garbs  betray 
The  blackness  of  the  faith  it  seems 

to  hide; 
And  see  the  Tyrant's  gem- wrought 
chariot  glide 
Among  the  gloomy  cowls  and  glitter- 
ing spears  — 
A  Shape  of  light  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
A  child  most  beautiful.     I'  the  midst 
appears 
Laon  —  exempt  alone  from  mortal  hopes 
and  fears. 


His  head  and  feet  are  bare,  his  hands 
are  bound 
Behind  with  heavy  chains,  yet  none 
do  wreak 
Their  scoffs  on  him,   though  myriads 
throng  around; 
There   are   no   sneers    upon   his   lip 

which  speak 
That   scorn  or  hate    has  made  him 
bold;    his  cheek 
Resolve  has  not  turned  pale  —  his  eyes 
are  mild 
And  calm,  and,  like  the  morn  about 
to  break, 
Smile   on   mankind — his  heart  seems 
reconciled 
To  all  things  and  itself,  like  a  reposing 
child. 


IV. 


Tumult  was  in  the  soul  of  all  beside, 
111   joy,  or  doubt,  or  fear;    but  those 
who  saw 
Their   tranquil  victim  pass  felt  wonder 
glide 
Into  their  brain,  and  became  calm 

with  awe.  -- 
See,  the  slow  pageant  near  the  pile 
doth  draw. 
A    thousand    torches    in  the    spacious 
square, 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


217 


Borne  by  the  ready  slaves   of  ruth- 
less law, 
Await  the  signal  round:   the  morning 
fair 
Is  changed  to  a  dim  night  by  that  un- 
natural glare. 


And  see,  beneath  a  sun-bright  canopy, 

Upon  a  platform  level  with  the  pile, 

The  anxious  Tyrant  sit,  enthroned  on 

high, 

Girt  by  the  chieftains  of   the   host : 

all  smile 
In   expectation,  but    one   child:    the 
while 
I,  Laon,  led  by  mutes,  ascend  my  bier 
Of  fire,  and  look  around:   each  dis- 
tant isle 
Is  dark  in  the  bright  dawn;   towers  far 
and  near 
Pierce  like  reposing  flames  the  tremu- 
lous atmosphere. 


There   was   such    silence   through  the 
host  as  when 
An  earthquake,  trampling  on  some 
populous  town, 
Has    crusht    ten    thousand   with    one 
tread,   and  men 
Expect  the  second;    all  were  mute 

but  one, 
That  fairest  child,  who,  bold  with 
love,  alone 
Stood    up    before    the    King,    without 
avail 
Pleading  for  Laon's  life  —  her  stifled 
groan 
Was   heard — she    trembled    like    one 
aspen  pale 
Among   the   gloomy  pines  of  a  Norwe- 
gian vale. 

VII. 

What  were  his  thoughts,  linkt  in  the 

morning  sun 
Among  those  reptiles,  stingless  with  ! 

delay, 
Even    like    a    tyrant's    wrath?  —  The 

signal-gun 


Roared  —  hark,     again !       In    that 

dread  pause  he  lay 
As  in  a   quiet    dream  —  the    slaves 
obey  — 
A  thousand  torches  drop,  —  and  hark  ! 
the  last 
Bursts  on    that    awful   silence;     far 
away, 
Millions,  with    hearts   that  beat  both 
loud  and  fast, 
Watch  for  the  springing  flame  expectant 
and  aghast. 


They  fly  —  the  torches  fall — a  cry  of 
fear 
Has  startled  the  triumphant !  — they 
recede  ! 
For,  ere   the   cannon's  roar   has  died, 
they  hear 
The  tramp  of  hoofs  like  earthquake, 

and  a  steed, 
Dark    and  gigantic,   with    the  tem- 
pest's speed 
Bursts  through  their  ranks :   a  woman 
sits  thereon, 
Fairer,    it    seems,    than    aught  that 
earth  can  breed, 
Calm,  radiant,  like  the  phantom  of  the 
dawn, 
A  spirit  from  the  caves  of  daylight  wan- 
dering gone. 


All  thought  it  was  God's  Angel  come 
to  sweep 
The    lingering    guilty   to  their  fiery 
grave; 
The  Tyrant  from  his  throne  in  dread 
did  leap,  — 
Her    innocence  his  child  from  fear 

did  save; 
Scared  by    the    faith    they  feigned, 
each  priestly  slave 
Knelt  for  his  mercy  whom  they  served 
with  blood, 
And,  like  the  refluence  of  a  mighty 
wave 
Suckt    into    the    loud  sea,  the    multi- 
tude 
With    crushing    panic    fled    in    terror's 
altered  mood. 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


They  pause,  they  blush,  they  gaze;  — 
a  gathering  shout 
Bursts,  like  one  sound  from  the  ten 
thousand  streams 
Of  a  tempestuous  sea:— that  sudden 
rout 
One     checked    who     never    in     his 

mildest  dreams 
Felt  awe   from  grace  or  loveliness, 
the  seams 
Of  his  rent  heart   so  hard  and  cold  a 
creed 
Had  seared   with  blistering  ice :  — 
but  he  misdeems 
That    he    is    wise    whose    wounds    do 
only  bleed 
Inly  for  self;    thus  thought  the  Iberian 
Priest  indeed, 


XI. 

And  others  too   thought   he  was  wise 
to  see 
In   pain    and  fear  and   hate    some- 
thing divine; 
In  love  and  beauty,  no  divinity. 

Now  with  a  bitter  smile,  whose  light 

did  shine 
Like  a  fiend's    hope  upon  his  lips 
and  eyne, 
He  said,  and  the  persuasion  of   that 
sneer 
Rallied   his   trembling    comrades  — 
"  Is  it  mine 
To    stand     alone,     when    kings    and 
soldiers  fear 
A  woman?     Heaven  has  sent  its  other 
victim  here." 


"Were    it    not    impious,"    said    the 
King,  "  to  break 
Our    holy    oath?  "  —  "  Impious    to 
keep  it,  say  !  " 
Shrieked  the  exulting  Priest.    "  Slaves, 
to  the  stake 
Bind  her,  and  on  my  head  the  bur- 
den lay 
Of      her     just     torments:  —  at     the 
Judgment-day 


Will    I    stand    up    before  the   golden 
throne 
Of  heaven,  and  cry,  'To  thee  did 
I  betray 
An    Infidel !     but  for    me    she   would 
have  known 
Another  moment's  joy  !  —  the  glory  be 
thine  own  !  '  " 


They   trembled,  but  replied  not,  nor 
obeyed, 
Pausing      in      breathless      silence. 
Cythna  sprung 
From  her  gigantic  steed,  who,  like  a 
shade 
Chased  by  the  winds,  those  vacant 

streets  among 
Fled    tameless,   as   the  brazen   rein 
she  flung 
Upon  his  neck,  and  kist  his  mooned 
brow. 
A  piteous  sight,  that  one  so  fair  and 
young 
The    clasp    of    such    a    fearful    death 
should  woo 
With  smiles  of  tender  joy,  as  beamed 
from  Cythna  now. 

XIV. 

The  warm  tears  burst  in  spite   of  faith 
and  fear 
From   many   a   tremulous   eye,   but, 
like  soft  dews 
Which    feed     Spring's    earliest    buds, 
hung  gathered  there, 
Frozen  by  doubt,  —  alas  !  they  could 

not  choose 
But     weep;     for,    when     her     faint 
limbs  did  refuse 
To    climb  the    pyre,   upon  the  mutes 
she  smiled; 
And    with    her    eloquent    gestures, 
and  the  hues 
Of    her  quick    lips,   even    as   a  weary 
child 
Wins  sleep  from  some  fond  nurse  with 
its  caresses  mild, 


She  won  them,  though   unwilling,  her 
to  bind 


THE  REVOLT  OE  ISLAM. 


!I9 


Near  me,  among  the  snakes.    When 
there  had  fled 
One    soft    reproach    that    was    most 
thrilling  kind, 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  nothing  then 

we  said, 
But  each  upon  the   other's  counte- 
nance fed 
Looks  of    insatiate  love;    the  mighty 
veil 
Which   doth   divide  the   living  and 
the  dead 
Was  almost  rent,  the  world  grew  dim 
and  pale,  — 
All  light  in  Heaven  or  Earth  beside  our 
love  did  fail. 


Yet  —  yet  —  one    brief    relapse,    like 
the  last  beam 
Of    dying    flames,  the    stainless  air 
around 
Hung  silent  and  serene  —  a  blood-red 
gleam 
Burst  upwards,  hurling  fiercely  from 

the  ground 
The   globed    smoke  ;     I    heard   the 
mighty  sound 
Of    its    uprise,     like    a    tempestuous 
ocean; 
And    through  its  chasms   I   saw  as 
in  a  swound 
The  Tyrant's  child  fall  without  life  or 
motion 
Before    his    throne,  subdued    by  some 
unseen  emotion.  — 


And   is   this   death  ?  —  The   pyre    has 

disappeared, 
The  Pestilence,  the  Tyrant,  and  the 

throng; 
The  flames  grow  silent  —  slowly  there 

is  heard 
The  music    of    a  breath-suspending 

song, 
Which,  like  the  kiss   of  love  when 

life  is  young, 
Steeps  the  faint  eyes  in  darkness  sweet 

and  deep; 
With   ever-changing   notes  it   floats 

along, 


Till  on  my  passive  soul  there  seemed 
to  creep 
A  melody,  like  waves  on  wrinkled  sands 
that  leap. 

XVIII. 

The  warm  touch  of  a  soft  and  tremu- 
lous hand 
Wakened  me  then;   lo  !  Cythna  sate 
reclined 
Beside  me,  on  the  waved  and  golden 
sand 
Of  a  clear  pool,  upon  a  bank  o'er- 

twined 
With  strange  and  star-bright  flowers 
which  to  the  wind 
Breathed    divine    odor ;     high    above 
was  spread 
The  emerald  heaven  of  trees  of  un- 
known kind, 
Whose  moonlike    blooms    and    bright 
fruit  overhead 
A    shadow  which  was    light    upon  the 
waters  shed. 


And  round  about  sloped  many  a  lawny 

mountain, 
With  incense-bearing  forests,  and  vast 

caves 
Of   marble    radiance,    to    that   mighty 
fountain; 
And,  where  the  flood  its  own  bright 

margin  laves, 
Their  echoes   talk  with    its  eternal 
waves, 
Which  from  the  depths  whose  jagged 
caverns  breed 
Their  unreposing  strife  it  lifts  and 
heaves,  — 
Till  through  a  chasm  of  hills  they  roll, 
and  feed 
A  river  deep,  which  flies  with  smooth 
but  arrowy  speed. 

xx. 

As    we    sate    gazing    in    a  trance    of 
wonder, 
A    boat    approacht,    borne    by    the 
musical  air 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Along    the    waves    which    sung    and 
sparkled  under 
Its    rapid    keel  —  a    winged   shape 

sate  there, 
A  child  with   silver-shining  wings, 
so  fair 
That,   as    her    bark    did    through   the 
waters  glide, 
The  shadow  of  the  lingering  waves 
did  wear 
Light,    as  from   starry    beams;     from 
side  to  side 
While  veering  to  the  wind  her  plumes 
the  bark  did  guide. 


The    boat    was    one    curved    shell    of 
hollow  pearl, 
Almost    translucent    with    the  light 
divine 
Of  her  within;   the  prow  and  stern  did 
curl, 
Horned    on    high,    like    the    young 

moon  supine, 
When  o'er  dim  twilight  mountains 
dark  with  pine 
It    floats    upon    the    sunset's    sea    of 
beams, 
Whose    golden    waves    in    many    a 
purple  line 
Fade    fast,    till,   borne    on    sunlight's 
ebbing  streams, 
Dilating,  on  earth's  verge  the  sunken 
meteor  gleams. 


Its  keel  has  struck  the   sands  beside 
our  feet.  — 
Then    Cythna    turned    to    me,    and 
from  her  eyes, 
Which  swam  with  unshed  tears,  a  look 
more  sweet 
Than  happy  love,  a  wild  and  glad 

surprise, 
Glanced   as  she   spake:    "Ay,  this 
is  Paradise, 
And    not    a    dream,    and    we    are    all 
united  ! 
Lo !  that  is  mine  own  child,  who  in 
the  guise 
Of    madness    came,    like   day  to    one 
benighted 


In  lonesome  woods;   my  heart  is  now 
too  well  requited !  " 

XXIII. 

And  then  she  wept  aloud,  and  in  her 
arms 
Clasped  that  bright  Shape,  less  mar- 
vellously fair 
Than  her  own  human  hues  and  living 
charms ; 
Which,  as  she  leaned  in  passion's 

silence  there, 
Breathed  warmth  on  the  cold  bosom 
of  the  air, 
Which  seemed  to  blush  and  tremble 
with  delight; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  her  stream- 
ing hair 
Fell     o'er     that     snowy     child,     and 
wrapt  from  sight 
The  fond  and  long  embrace  which  did 
their  hearts  unite. 

XXIV. 

Then    the    bright    child,    the    plumed 
Seraph,  came, 
And  fixt  its  blue  and  beaming  eyes 
on  mine, 
And  said  :   "  I  was  disturbed  by  tremu- 
lous shame 
When  first  we  met,  yet  knew  that  I 

was  thine, 
From  the  same  hour  in  which  thy 
lips  divine 
Kindled  a  clinging  dream  within  my 
brain, 
Which   ever   waked   when   I  might 
sleep,  to  twine 
Thine  image  with  her  memory  dear  — 
again 
We  meet;    exempted  now  from  mortal 
fear  or  pain. 


"  When    the    consuming    flames    had 
wrapt  ye  round, 
The    hope    which    I    had    cherisht 
went  away; 
I  fell  in  agony  on  the  senseless  ground, 
And  hid  mine  eyes  in  dust,  and  fax 
astray 


THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


My   mind  was  gone,  when,  bright 
like  dawning  day, 
The  Spectre  of  the  Plague  before  me 
flew, 
And   breathed  upon   my   lips,  and 
seemed  to  say, 
•  They  wait  for  thee,  beloved  ! '  — then 
I  knew 
The  death-mark  on  my  breast,  and  be- 
came calm  anew. 


"It  was  the  calm  of  love  —  for  I  was 
dying. 
I    saw    the    black    and    half-extin- 
guished pyre 
In  its  own  gray  and  shrunken  ashes 
lying; 
The  pitchy  smoke  of  the  departed 

fire 
Still  hung  in  many  a  hollow  dome 
and  spire 
Above  the  towers,  like  night;  beneath 
whose  shade, 
Awed  by  the  ending  of  their  own 
desire, 
The    armies    stood;     a   vacancy    was 
made 
In   expectation's   depth,   and   so   they 
stood  dismayed. 

XXVII. 

"The  frightful  silence  of  that  altered 
mood 
The  tortures  of  the  dying  clove  alone, 
Till  one  uprose  among  the  multitude, 
And  said :    '  The  flood   of   time   is 

rolling  on; 
We  stand  upon  its  brink,  whilst  they 
are  gone 
To  glide  in  peace  down  death's  mys- 
terious stream. 
Have  ye  done  well?    They  moulder, 
flesh  and  bone, 
Who  might  have  made  this  life's  en- 
venomed dream 
A  sweeter   draught  than  ye  will  ever 
taste,  I  deem. 


"  '  These  perish  as  the  good  and  great 
of  yore 


Have   perisht,  and  their  murderers 
will  repent. 
Yes,  vain  and  barren  tears  shall  flow 
before 
Yon  smoke  has  faded  from  the  firma- 
ment, — 
Even  for  this  cause,  that  ye,  who 
must  lament 
The   death  of    those    that    made  this 
world  so  fair, 
Cannot  recal  them  now;   but  there 
is  lent 
To  man  the  wisdom  of  a  high  despair 
When  such  can  die,  and  he  live  on  and 
linger  here. 

XXIX. 

"'Ay,  ye   may   fear — not   now   the 
Pestilence, 
From    fabled   hell    as   by  a   charm 
withdrawn,  — 
All  power  and  faith  must  pass,  since 
calmly  hence 
In  pain  and  fire   have  unbelievers 

gone; 
And  ye  must  sadly  turn  away,  and 
moan 
In  secret,  to  his  home  each  one  return- 
ing, 
And  to  long  ages  shall  this  hour  be 
known; 
And   slowly   shall    its   memory,    ever 
burning, 
Fill  this  dark  night  of  things  with  an 
eternal  morning. 

XXX. 

"  '  For   me   the  world   is  grown   too 

void  and  cold, 

Since  hope  pursues  immortal  destiny 

With  steps  thus  slow  —  therefore  shall 

ye  behold 

How  those  who  love,  yet  fear  not, 

dare  to  die; 
Tell  to  your  children  this !  '     Then 
suddenly 
He  sheathed  a  dagger  in  his  heart,  and 
fell; 
My  brain  grew  dark  in  death,  and 
yet  to  me 
There  came  a  murmur  from  the  crowd 
to  tell 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


Of  deep  and  mighty  change  which  sud- 

The  boat  fled   visibly  —  three   nights 

denly  befel. 

and  days, 

Borne    like  a  cloud  through  morn, 

XXXI. 

and  noon,  and  even, 

We  sailed   along  the  winding  watery 

"Then    suddenly    I    stood,  a  winged 

ways 

Thought, 

Of  the  vast   stream,  a  long  and  laby- 

Before the  immortal  Senate,  and  the 
seat 
Of  that  star-shining  Spirit,  whence  is 

rinthine  maze. 

XXXIV. 

wrought 

The  strength  of  its  dominion,   good 

A  scene  of  joy  and  wonder  to  behold 

and  great, 

That    river's    shapes    and   shadows 

The  better  Genius   of   this  world's 

changing  ever, 

estate. 

When    the  broad    sunrise    filled  with 

His  realm  around  one  mighty  Fane  is 

deepening  gold 

spread, 

Its    whirlpools  where   all    hues  did 

Elysian  islands  bright  and  fortunate, 

spread  and  quiver, 

Calm  dwellings  of  the  free  and  happy 

And  where  melodious  falls  did  burst 

dead, 

and  shiver 

Where    I    am   sent    to    lead."       These 

Among  rocks   clad  with   flowers,   the 

winged  words  she  said, 

foam  and  spray 

Sparkled  like  stars  upon  the  sunny 

XXXII. 

river; 

Or,    when    the    moonlight    poured    a 

And  with  the  silence  of  her  eloquent 

holier  day, 

smile 

One    vast    and    glittering    lake   around 

Bade  us  embark  in  her  divine  canoe. 

green  islands  lay. 

Then   at  the  helm  we  took  our  seat, 

the  while 

XXXV. 

Above   her    head    those    plumes  of 

dazzling  hue 

Morn,   noon,   and   even,  that  boat  of 

Into  the  wind's  invisible  stream  she 

pearl  outran 

threw, 

The  streams  which  bore  it,  like  the 

Sitting  beside  the  prow  :  like  gossamer 

arrowy  cloud 

On   the  swift  breath   of  morn,   the 

Of    tempest,  or  the  speedier  thought 

vessel  flew 

of  man 

O'er    the    bright    whirlpools    of    that 

Which  flieth  forth  and  cannot  make 

fountain  fair, 

abode; 

Whose  shores    receded  fast   whilst   we 

Sometimes    through    forests,    deep 

seemed  lingering  there. 

like  night,  we  glode, 

Between   the    walls   of  mighty  moun- 

XXXIII. 

tains  crowned 

With  Cyclopean  piles,  whose  turrets 

Till  down  that   mighty  stream,  dark1, 

proud, 

calm,  and  fleet, 

The    homes    of    the    departed,    dimly 

Between  a  chasm  of  cedarn   moun- 

frowned 

tains  riven, 

O'er  the  bright  waves  which  girt  their 

Chased  by  the  thronging  winds  whose 

dark  foundations  round. 

viewless  feet, 

As    swift  as  twinkling  beams,   had 

XXXVI. 

under  Heaven 

From  woods  and  waves  wild  sounds 

Sometimes    between     the    wide    and 

and  odors  driven, 

flowering  meadows 

THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


223 


Mile  after  mile  we  sailed,  and  't  was 
delight 
To  see  far  off  the  sunbeams  chase  the 
shadows 
Over  the  grass:   sometimes  beneath 

the  night 
Of   wide  and    vaulted  caves  whose 
roofs  were  bright 
With  starry  gems  we  fled,  whilst  from 
their  deep 
And    dark  -  green     chasms     shades 
beautiful  and  white 
Amid    sweet    sounds  across    our  path 
would  sweep, 
Like  swift  and  lovely  dreams  that  walk 
the  waves  of  sleep. 

XXXVII. 

And  ever  as  we  sailed  our  minds  were 
full 
Of  love  and  wisdom,  which  would 
overflow 
In  converse  wild  and  sweet  and  won- 
derful, 
And   in   quick    smiles    whose    light 

would  come  and  go 
Like  music  o'er  wide  waves,  and  in 
the  flow 
Of    sudden    tears,    and    in    the   mute 
caress  — 
For  a  deep  shade  was  cleft,  and  we 
did  know 
That  virtue,  though  obscured  on  Earth, 
not  less 
Survives    all   mortal  change  in  lasting 
loveliness. 


Three   days  and  nights  we  sailed,  as 
thought  and  feeling 
Number      delightful      hours  —  for 
through  the  sky 
The  sphered  lamps  of  day  and  night, 
revealing 
New  changes  and  new  glories,  rolled 

on  high, 
Sun,   moon,   and    moonlike    lamps, 
the  progeny 
Of  a  diviner  Heaven,  serene  and  fair: 
On  the  fourth  day,  wild  as  a  wind- 
wrought  sea 


The  stream  became,  and  fast  and  faster 
bare 
The  spirit-winged  boat,  steadily  speed- 
ing there. 


Steady    and    swift,    where   the    waves 
rolled  like  mountains 
Within  the  vast  ravine  whose  rifts 
did  pour 
Tumultuous  floods  from  their  ten-thou- 
sand fountains, 
The  thunder  of  whose  earth-uplift- 
ing roar 
Made   the   air  sweep  in  whirlwinds 
from  the  shore, 
Calm  as  a  shade,  the  boat  of  that  fair 
child 
Securely  fled  that  rapid  stress  before, 
Amid  the  topmost  spray  and  sunbows 
wild 
Wreathed  in  the  silver  mist :   in  joy  and 
pride  we  smiled. 


The    torrent  of  that  wide   and  raging 
river 
Is    past,   and    our  aerial  speed  sus- 
pended. 
We   look  behind;    a  golden  mist  did 
quiver 
Where  its  wild  surges  with  the  lake 

were  blended : 
Our  bark  hung  there,  as  on  a  line 
suspended 
Between    two    heavens,  that   windless 
waveless  lake 
Which  four  great  cataracts  from  four 
vales,  attended 
By  mists,    aye  feed :    from  rocks  and 
clouds  they  break, 
And  of  that   azure   sea  a  silent  refuge 
make. 


Motionless  resting  on  the  lake  awhile, 
I    saw    its    marge    of    snow-bright 
mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  aloft,  I   saw  each  radiant 
isle, 


224 


NOTE    ON  THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


And  in  the  midst,  afar,  even  like  a 

sphere 
Hung  in  one  hollow  sky,  did  there 
appear 
The   Temple    of    the    Spirit;     on   the 
sound 
Which  issued  thence  drawn  nearer 
and  more  near, 
Like  the  swift  moon  this  glorious  earth 
around, 
The    charmed    boat    approached,    and 
there  its  haven  found. 


NOTE  ON  THE   REVOLT  OF   ISLAM, 
BY    MRS.   SHELLEY. 

Shelley  possessed  two  remarkable 
qualities  of  intellect,  —  a  brilliant  imagi- 
nation, and  a  logical  exactness  of  reason. 
His  inclinations  led  him  (he  fancied) 
almost  alike  to  poetry  and  metaphysical 
discussions.  I  say  "  he  fancied,"  because 
I  believe  the  former  to  have  been  para- 
mount, and  that  it  would  have  gained  the 
mastery  even  had  he  struggled  against  it. 
However,  he  said  that  he  deliberated 
at  one  time  whether  he  should  dedicate 
himself  to  poetry  or  metaphysics;  and, 
resolving  on  the  former,  he  educated  him- 
self for  it,  discarding  in  a  great  measure 
his  philosophical  pursuits,  and  engaging 
himself  in  the  study  of  the  poets  of 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England.  To  these 
may  be  added  a  constant  perusal  of  por- 
tions of  the  Old  Testament — the  Psalms, 
the  Book  of  Job,  the  Prophet  Isaiah,  and 
others,  the  sublime  poetry  of  which  filled 
him  with  delight. 

As  a  poet,  his  intellect  and  composi- 
tions were  powerfully  influenced  by  exte- 
rioi  circumstances,  and  especially  by  his 
piace  of  abode.  He  was  very  fond  of 
travelling,  and  ill-health  increased  this 
restlessness.  The  sufferings  occasioned 
by  a  cold  English  winter  made  him  pine, 
especially  when  our  colder  spring  arrived, 
for  a  more  genial  climate.  In  1816  he 
again  visited  Switzerland,  and  rented  a 
house  on  the  banks  of  the  Lake  of  Ge- 
neva; and  many  a  day,  in  cloud  or  sun- 
shine, was'  passed  alone  in  his  boat  — 
sailing  as  the  wind  listed,  or  weltering  on 


the  calm  waters.  The  majestic  aspect  of 
Nature  ministered  such  thoughts  as  he 
afterwards  enwove  in  verse.  His  lines  on 
the  Bridge  of  the  Arve,  and  his  "  Hymn 
to  Intellectual  Beauty,"  were  written  at 
this  time.  Perhaps  during  this  summer 
his  genius  was  checked  by  association 
with  another  poet  whose  nature  was  ut- 
terly dissimilar  to  his  own,  yet  who,  in  the 
poem  he  wrote  at  that  time,  gave  tokens 
that  he  shared  for  a  period  the  more  ab- 
stract and  etherealized  inspiration  of  Shel- 
ley. The  saddest  events  awaited  his 
return  to  England;  but  such  was  his  fear 
to  wound  the  feelings  of  others  that  he 
never  expressed  the  anguish  he  felt,  and 
seldom  gave  vent  to  the  indignation  roused 
by  the  persecutions  he  underwent;  while 
the  course  of  deep  unexpressed  passion, 
and  the  sense  of  injury,  engendered  the 
desire  to  embody  themselves  in  forms 
defecated  of  all  the  weakness  and  evil 
which  cling  to  real  life. 

He  chose  therefore  for  his  hero  a  youth 
nourished  in  dreams  of  liberty,  some  of 
whose  actions  are  in  direct  opposition  to 
the  opinions  of  the  world;  but  who  is 
animated  throughout  by  an  ardent  love  of 
virtue,  and  a  resolution  to  confer  the  boons 
of  political  and  intellectual  freedom  on  his 
fellow-creatures.  He  created  for  this 
youth  a  woman  such  as  he  delighted  to 
imagine  —  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  same 
objects;  and  they  both,  with  will  unvan- 
quished,  and  the  deepest  sense  of  the  jus- 
tice of  their  cause,'  met  adversity  and 
death.  There  exists  in  this  poem  a  memo- 
rial of  a  friend  of  his  youth.  The  charac- 
ter of  the  old  man  who  liberates  Laon 
from  his  tower-prison,  and  tends  on  him 
in  sickness,  is  founded  on  that  of  Doctor 
Lind,  who,  when  Shelley  was  at  Eton, 
had  often  stood  by  to  befriend  and  sup- 
port him,  and  whose  name  he  never 
mentioned  without  love  and  veneration. 

During  the  year  181 7  we  were  estab- 
lished at  Marlow  in  Buckinghamshire. 
Shelley's  choice  of  abode  was  fixed  chiefly 
by  this  town  being  at  no  great  distance 
from  London,  and  its  neighborhood  to  the 
Thames.  The  poem  was  written  in  his 
boat,  as  it  floated  under  the  beech-groves 
of  Bisham,  or  during   wanderings  in  the 


NOTE    ON    THE   REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


neighboring  country,  which  is  distin- 
guished for  peculiar  beauty.  The  chalk 
hills  break  into  cliffs  that  overhang  the 
Thames,  or  form  valleys  clothed  with 
beech;  the  wilder  portion  of  the  country 
is  rendered  beautiful  by  exuberant  vege- 
tation; and  the  cultivated  part  is  pecu- 
liarly fertile.  With  all  this  wealth  of 
Nature,  which,  either  in  the  form  of  gen- 
tlemen's parks  or  soil  dedicated  to  agri- 
culture, flourishes  around,  Marlow  was 
inhabited  (I  hope  it  is  altered  now)  by  a 
very  poor  population.  The  women  are 
Iacemakers,  and  lose  their  health  by 
sedentary  labor,  for  which  they  were  very 
ill  paid.  The  Poor-laws  ground  to  the 
dust  not  only  the  paupers,  but  those  who 
had  risen  just  above  that  state,  and  were 
obliged  to  pay  poor-rates.  The  changes 
produced  by  peace  following  a  long  war, 
and  a  bad  harvest,  brought  with  them 
the  most  heart-rending  evils  to  the  poor. 
Shelley  afforded  what  alleviation  he  could. 
In  the  winter,  while  bringing  out  his 
poem,  he  had  a  severe  attack  of  ophthal- 
mia, caught  while  visiting  the  poor  cot- 
tages. I  mention  these  things — for  this 
minute  and  active  sympathy  with  his  fel- 
low-creatures gives  a  thousand-fold  inter- 
est to  his  speculations,  and  stamps  with 
reality  his  pleadings  for  the  human  race. 
The  poem,  bold  in  its  opinions  and  un- 
compromising in  their  expression,  met 
with  many  censurers,  not  only  among  those 
who  allow  of  no  virtue  but  such  as  sup- 
ports the  cause  they  espouse,  but  even 
among  those  whose  opinions  were  similar 
to  his  own.  I  extract  a  portion  of  a  let- 
ter written  in  answer  to  one  of  these 
friends.  It  best  details  the  impulses  of 
Shelley's  mind,  and  his  motives:  it  was 
written  with  entire  unreserve;  and  is 
therefore  a  precious  monument  of  his 
own  opinion  of  his  powers,  of  the  purity 
of  his  designs,  and  the  ardor  with  which 
he  clung,  in  adversity  and  through  the  val- 
ley of  the  shadow  of  death,  to  views  from 
which  he  believed  the  permanent  happi- 
ness of  mankind  must  eventually  spring. 

"Marlow,  Dec.  n,  1817. 
"  I  have  read  and   considered   all  that 
you  say   about  my  general  powers,   and 


the  particular  instance  of  the  poem  in 
which  I  have  attempted  to  develop  them. 
Nothing  can  be  more  satisfactory  to  me 
than  the  interest  which  your  admoni- 
tions express.  But  I  think  you  are  mis- 
taken in  some  points  with  regard  to  the 
peculiar  nature  of  my  powers,  whatever 
be  their  amount.  I  listened  with  defer- 
ence and  self-suspicion  to  your  censures 
of  'The  Revolt  of  Islam;  '  but  the 
productions  of  mine  which  you  commend 
hold  a  very  low  place  in  my  own  esteem; 
and  this  reassures  me,  in  some  degree  at 
least.  The  poem  was  produced  by  a 
series  of  thoughts  which  filled  my  mind 
with  unbounded  and  sustained  enthusi- 
asm. I  felt  the  precariousness  of  my 
life,  and  I  engaged  in  this  task,  resolved 
to  leave  some  record  of  myself.  Much  of 
what  the  volume  contains  was  written  with 
the  same  feeling  —  as  real,  though  not 
so  prophetic  —  as  the  communications  of 
a  dying  man.  I  never  presumed  indeed 
to  consider  it  anything  approaching  to 
faultless;  but,  when  I  consider  contem- 
porary productions  of  the  same  apparent 
pretensions,  I  own  I  was  filled  with 
confidence.  I  felt  that  it  was  in  many 
respects   a  genuine    picture  of    my  own 

I  mind.  I  felt  that  the  sentiments  were 
true,  not   assumed.     And  in  this  have  I 

I  long  believed  that  my  power  consists;  in 
sympathy,  and  that  part  of  the  imagina- 

!   tion  which  relates  to  sentiment  and  con- 

!  templation.  I  am  formed,  if  for  any- 
thing not  in  common  with  the  herd  of 
mankind,  to  apprehend  minute  and  re- 
mote   distinctions    of     feeling,    whether 

J   relative  to   external   nature  or  the  living 

j  beings  which  surround  us,  and  to  com- 
municate the  conceptions  which  result 
from  considering  either  the  moral  or  the 

1    material  universe  as  a  whole.     Of  course, 

\  I  believe  these  faculties,  which  perhaps 
comprehend  all  that  is  sublime  in  man,  to 
exist  very  imperfectly  in  my  own  mind. 
But,  when  you  advert  to  my  Chancery- 

;  paper,  a  cold,  forced,  unimpassioned,  in- 
significant piece  of  cramped  and  cautious 
argument,  and  to  the  little  scrap  about 
'  Mandeville,'  which  expressed  my  feel- 
ings indeed,  but  cost  scarcely  two  min- 

I  utes'  thought  to  express,  as  specimens  of 


226 


PRINCE   ATHANASE. 


my  powers  more  favorable  than  that 
which  grew  as  it  were  from  '  the  agony 
and  bloody  sweat  '  of  intellectual  trav- 
ail; surely  I  must  feel  that,  in  some 
manner,  either  I  am  mistaken  in  believ- 
ing that  I  have  any  talent  at  all,  or  you 
in  the  selection  of  the  specimens  of  it. 
Yet,  after  all,  I  cannot  but  be  conscious, 
in  much  of  what  I  write,  of  an  absence 
of  that  tranquillity  which  is  the  attribute 
and  accompaniment  of  power.  This 
feeling  alone  would  make  your  most  kind 
and  wise  admonitions,  on  the  subject  of 
the  economy  of  intellectual  force,  valu- 
able to  me.  And,  if  I  live,  or  if  I  see 
any  trust  in  coming  years,  doubt  not  but 
that  I  shall  do  something,  whatever  it 
may  be,  which  a  serious  and  earnest  esti- 
mate of  my  powers  will  suggest  to  me, 
and  which  will  be  in  every  respect  ac- 
commodated to  their  utmost  limits." 


PRINCE   ATHANASE.* 
A   FRAGMENT. 

Part  I. 

There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil 

and  travel, 
Had  grown  quite  weak  and  gray  before 

his  time; 
Nor  any  could  the  restless  griefs  unravel 

Which  burned  within  him,  withering  up 
his  prime 

1  The  idea  Shelley  had  formed  of  Prince 
Athanase  was  a  good  deal  modelled  on  Alastor. 
In  the  first  sketch  of  the  poem,  he  named  it  Pun- 
demos  and  Urania.  Athanase  seeks  through 
the  world  the  One  whom  he  may  love.  He 
meets,  in  the  ship  in  which  lie  is  embarked,  a 
lady  who  appears  to  him  to  embody  his  ideal  of 
love  and  beauty.  But  she  proves'  to  be  Pan- 
demos,  or  the  earthly  and  unworthy  Venus ; 
who,  after  disappointing  his  cherished  dreams 
and  hopes,  deserts  him.  Athanase,  crushed  by 
sorrow,  pines  and  dies.  "On  his  deathbed,  the 
lady  who  can  really  reply  to  his  soul  conies  and 
kisses  his  lips."  {The  Deathbed  of  Athanase?) 
The  poet  describes  her  Lin  the  words  of  the  final 
fragment,  p.  231].  This  slender  note  is  all  we 
have  to  aid  our  imagination  in  shaping  out  the 
form  of  the  poem,  such  as  its  author  imagined. 
[Mrs.  Shelley's  Note.] 


j   And  goading  him,  like  fiends,  from  land 
to  land. 
Not  his  the  load  of  any  secret  crime, 

For  naught  of  ill  his  heart  could  under- 
stand, 
But  pity  and  wild  sorrow  for  the  same; — - 
Not  his  the  thirst  for  glory  or  command 

Baffled    with    blast    of    hope-consuming 

shame; 
j   Nor  evil  joys  which  fire  the  vulgar  breast 
j   And  quench  in  speedy  smoke  its  feeble 

flame, 

Had  left  within  his  soul  their  dark  un- 
rest: 
Nor  what  religion  fables  of  the  grave 
Feared  he, — Philosophy's  accepted  guest. 

For  none  than  he  a  purer  heart  could 

have, 
Or  that  loved  good  more  for  itself  alone; 
Of  naught  in  heaven  or  earth  was  he  the 

slave. 

What  sorrow  strange,  and  shadowy,  and 

unknown, 
Sent  him,  a  hopeless  wanderer,  through 

mankind?  — 
If  with  a  human  sadness  he  did  groan. 

He  had  a  gentle  yet  aspiring  mind; 
Just,  innocent,  with  varied  learning  fed, 
And  such  a  glorious  consolation  find 

In   others'   joy,   when   all    their   own   is 

dead : 
He  loved,  and  labored  for  his  kind  in 

grief, 
And  yet,  unlike  all  others,  it  is  said, 

That  from  such  toil  he  never  found  relief. 
Although  a  child  of  fortune  and  of  power, 
Of  an  ancestral  name  the  orphan  chief, 

His  soul  had  wedded  Wisdom,  and  hei 

dower 
Is  love  and  justice,  clothed  in  which  he 

sate 
Apart  from  men,  as  in  a  lonely  tower, 


PRINCE   A  7  If  A  A  'A  SE. 


227 


Pitying  the  tumult  of  their  dark  estate  — 
Yet  even  in  youth  did  he  not  e'er  abuse 
The   strength   of   wealth   or  thought,  to 
consecrate 

Those    false    opinions   which    the   harsh 

rich  use 
To  blind  the  world  they  famish  for  their 

pride; 
Nor  did  he  hold  from  any  man  his  dues, 

But  like  a  steward  in  honest  dealings  tried 
With   those   who   toiled   and    wept,    the 

poor  and  wise, 
His  riches  and  his  cares  he  did  divide. 

Fearless  he  was,  and  scorning  all  dis- 
guise, 

What  he  dared  do  or  think,  though  men 
might  start, 

He  spoke  with  mild  yet  unaverted  eyes; 

Liberal  he  was  of  soul,  and  frank  of 
heart, 

And  to  his  many  friends  —  all  loved  him 
well  — 

Whate'er  he  knew  or  felt  he  would  im- 
part, 

If  words  he  found  those  inmost  thoughts 

to  tell; 
If  not,  he  smiled  or  wept;    and  his  weak 

foes 
He  neither  spurned  nor  hated,  though 

with  fell 

And  mortal  hate  their  thousand  voices 

rose, 
They  past  like  aimless  arrows  from  his 

ear  — 
Nor  did  his  heart  or  mind  its  portal  close 

To  those,  or   them,  or  any  whom  life's 

sphere 
May  comprehend  within  its  wide  array. 
What   sadness    made    that   vernal    spirit 

sere? 

He    knew    not.     Though    his    life,    day 

after  day, 
Was  failing  like  an  unreplenisht  stream, 
Though  in  his  eyes  a  cloud  and  burden 

lay, 


Through  which   his   soul,  like   Vesper's 

serene  beam 
Piercing  the  chasms  of  ever  rising  clouds, 
Shone,  softly  burning;    though   his  lips 

did  seem 

Like  reeds  which  quiver  in  impetuous 
floods; 

And  through  his  sleep,  and  o'er  each 
waking  hour, 

Thoughts  after  thoughts,  unresting  mul- 
titudes, 

Were  driven  within  him,  by  some  secret 

power, 
Which   bade  them  blaze,  and  live,  and 

roll  afar, 
Like  lights    and    sounds,   from   haunted 

tower  to  tower 

O'er    castled    mountains    borne,    when 

tempest's  war 
Is  levied  by  the  night-contending  winds 
And  the  pale  dalesmen  watch  with  eager 

ear;  — 

Though  such  were  in  his  spirit,  as   the 

fiends 
Which  wake  and  feed  on  everliving  woe,— 
What  was  this  grief,  which  ne'er  in  other 

minds 

A  mirror  found,  —  he  knew  not — none 

could  know; 
But  on  whoe'er  might  question  him  he 

turned 
The  light  of  his  frank  eyes,  as  if  to  show, 

He  knew  not  of    the  grief  within   that 

burned, 
But  asked  forbearance  with  a  mournful 

look; 
Or  spoke  in  words  from  which  none  ever 

learned 

The  cause  of  his  disquietude;   or  shook 
With  spasms  of  silent  passion;  or  turned 

pale : 
So  that  his  friends  soon  rarely  undertook 

To  stir  his  secret  pain  without  avail;  — 
For  all  who  knew  and   loved  him  then 
perceived 


22S 


PRINCE    A  THA .  \  'A  SE. 


That  there  was  drawn  an  adamantine 
veil 

Between  his  heart  and  mind,  —  both  un- 
relieved 

Wrought  in  his  brain  and  bosom  separate 
strife. 

Some  said  that  he  was  mad,  others 
believed 

That  memories  of  an  antenatal  life 
Made  this,  where  now  he  dwelt,  a  penal 

hell; 
And  others  said  that  such  mysterious  grief 

From  God's  displeasure,  like  a  darkness, 
fell 

On  souls  like  his  which  owned  no  higher 
law 

Than  love  ;  love  calm,  steadfast,  invin- 
cible 

By  mortal  fear  or  supernatural  awe; 
And  others, —  "'Tis  the  shadow  of   a 

dream 
Which  the  veiled  eye  of  memory  never 

saw 

"But    through    the    soul's    abyss,    like 

some  dark  stream 
Through    shattered    mines    and    caverns 

underground 
Rolls,   shaking  its  foundations;    and  no 

beam 

"Of    joy    may    rise,    but    it    is    quencht 

and  drowned 
In    the    dim    whirlpools    of    this    dream 

obscure. 
Soon  its  exhausted  waters  will  have  found 

"A  lair  of  rest  beneath  thy  spirit  pure, 
O  Athanase  !  —  in  one  so  good  and  great, 
Evil  or  tumult  cannot  long  endure." 

So  spake  they :   idly  of  another's  state 
Babbling    vain    words   and   fond   philos- 
ophy; 
This  was  their  consolation;    such  debate 

Men  held  with  one  another;  nor  did  he 
Like  one  who  labors  with  a  human  woe 
Decline  this  talk  :  as  if  its  theme  might  be 


Another,  not  himself,  he  to  and  fro 
Questioned  and  canvast  it  with  subtlest 

wit, 
And  none  but  those  who  loved  him  best 

could  know 

That  which  he  knew  not,  how  it  galled 

and  bit 
His  weary  mind,  this  converse  vain  and 

cold; 
For  like  an  eyeless  nightmare  grief  did  sit 

Upon  his  being;    a  snake  which  fold  by 

fold 
Brest    out    the   life    of    life,    a    clinging 

fiend 
Which    clencht    him    if  he    stirred  with 

deadlier  hold;  — 
And  so  his  grief  remained  —  let  it  remain 

—  untold.1 


Part  II. 

FRAGMENT    I. 

Prince    Athanase    had    one    beloved 

friend, 
An    old,    old    man,   with  hair    of    silver 

white, 
And   lips  where  heavenly  smiles  would 

hang  and  blend 

With  his  wise  words;   and   eyes  whose 

arrowy  light 
Shone    like    the    reflex    of    a    thousand 

minds. 
Me    was     the     last  whom    superstition's 

blight 

Had  spared  in  Greece — the  blight  that 

cramps  and  blinds.  — ■ 
And  in  his  olive  bower  at  CEnoe 
Had  sate  from  earliest  youth.      Like  one 

who  finds 


1  The  Author  was  pursuing  a  fuller  develop- 
ment of  the  ideal  character  of  Athanase,  when  it 
struck  him  that  in  an  attempt  at  extreme  refine- 
ment and  analysis,  his  conceptions  might  he 
betrayed  into  the  assuming  a  morbid  character. 
The  reader  will  judge  whether  he  is  a  loser  or 
giiner  Ly  the  difference.     [Shelley's  Note. J 


PRINCE  ATHANASE. 


229 


A  fertile  island  in  a  barren  sea, 
One  mariner  who  has  survived  his  mates 
Many  a   drear  month  in  a  great  ship  — 
so  he 

With  soul-sustaining  songs,  and  sweet 
debates 

Of  ancient  lore,  there  fed  his  lonely 
being:  — 

"  The  mind  becomes  that  which  it  con- 
templates," — 

And  thus  Zonoras,  by  forever  seeing 
Their  bright  creations,  grew  like  wisest 

men; 
And  when  he  heard  the  crash  of  nations 

fleeing 

A  bloodier  power  than  ruled  thy  ruins 

then, 
O  sacred  Hellas  !  many  weary  years 
He  wandered,  till  the  path  of  Laian's  glen 

Was  grass-grown  —  and   the   unremem- 

bered  tears 
Were   dry  in   Laian    for    their   honored 

chief, 
Who  fell  in  Byzant,  pierced  by  Moslem 

spears:  — 

And    as    the    lady    lookt    with    faithful 

grief 
From  her   high   lattice   o'er  the  rugged 

path, 
Where  she  once  saw  that  horseman  toil, 

with  brief 

And  blighting  hope,  who  with  the  news 
of  death 

Struck  body  and  soul  as  with  a  mortal 
blight, 

She  saw  beneath  the  chestnuts,  far  be- 
neath, 

An  old  man  toiling  up,  a  weary  wight; 
And  soon  within  her  hospitable  hall 
She  saw  his  white  hairs  glittering  in  the 
light 

Of  the  wood  fire,  and  round  his  shoul- 
ders fall; 
And  his  wan  visage  and  his  withered  mien 
Yet  calm  and  gentle  and  majestical. 


And  Athanase,  her  child,  who  must  have 

been 
Then  three  years  old,  sate  opposite  and 

gazed 
In  patient  silence. 


FRAGMENT   II. 

€» 

Such  was  Zonoras;  and  as  daylight  finds 
One  amaranth  glittering  on  the  path  of 

frost, 
When    autumn     nights    have     nipt    all 

weaker  kinds, 

Thus  through  his  age,  dark,  cold,  and 

tempest-tost, 
Shone  truth  upon  Zonoras;   and  he  filled 
From    fountains    pure,    nigh   overgrown 

and  lost, 

The  spirit  of  Prince  Athanase,  a  child, 
With  soul-sustaining  songs  of  ancient  lore 
And  philosophic  wisdom,  clear  and  mild. 

And  sweet  and  subtle  talk  they  evermore, 
The  pupil  and  the  master,  shared;  until, 
Sharing  that  undiminishable  store, 

The  youth,  as  shadows  on  a  grassy  hill 
Outrun  the  winds  that  chase  them,  soon 

outran 
His  teacher,  and  did  teach  with  native 

skill 

Strange  truths  and  new  to  that  experi- 
enced man; 

Still  they  were  friends,  as  few  have  ever 
been 

Who  mark  the  extremes  of  life's  dis- 
cordant span. 

So  in  the  caverns  of  the  forest  green, 
Or  by  the  rocks  of  echoing  ocean  hoar, 
Zonoras  and  Prince  Athanase  were  seen 

By  summer  woodmen;  and  when  win- 
ter's roar 

Sounded  o'er  earth  and  sea  its  blast  of 
war, 

The  Balearic  fisher,  driven  from  shore, 


230 


PRINCE  ATHANASE. 


Hanging  upon  the  peaked  wave  afar, 
Then  saw  their  lamp  from  Laian's  turret 

gleam, 
Piercing  the  stormy  darkness  like  a  star, 

Which  pours  beyond  the  sea  one  stead- 
fast beam, 
Whilst  all  the  constellations' of  the  sky 
Seemed  reeling  through  the  storm.    They 
did  but  seem  — 

For,  lo  !  the  wintry  clouds  are  all  gone  by, 
And  bright  Arcturus  through  yon  pines 

is  glowing, 
And  far  o'er  southern  waves,  immovably 

Belted    Orion    hangs  —  warm    light    is 

flowing 
From  the  young  moon  into  the  sunset's 

chasm.  — 
"  O,  summer  eve !   with  power  divine, 

bestowing 

"  On  thine  own  bird  the  sweet  enthu- 
siasm 

Which  overflows  in  notes  of  liquid  glad- 
ness, 

Filling  the  sky  like  light !  How  many 
a  spasm 

"  Of  fevered  brains,  opprest  with  grief 
and  madness, 

Were  lulled  by  thee,  delightful  nightin- 
gale ! 

And  these  soft  waves,  murmuring  a  gen- 
tle sadness, 

"And  the  far  sighings  of  yon  piny  dale 
Made  vocal  by  some  wind,  we   feel  not 

here, — 
I  bear  alone  what  nothing  may  avail 

"  To  lighten  —  a  strange  load!"  —  No 

human  ear 
Heard  this  lament;   but  o'er  the  visage 

wan 
Of  Athanase,  a  ruffling  atmosphere 

Of  dark  emotion,  a  swift  shadow  ran, 
Like    wind   upon   some    forest-bosomed 

lake, 
Glassy  and  dark.  —  And  that  divine  old 

man 


Beheld  his  mystic  friend's  whole  being 

shake, 
Even    where    its    inmost    depths    were 

gloomiest  — 
And  with  a  calm  and  measured  voice  he 

spake, 

And  with  a  soft  and  equal  pressure, 
prest 

That  cold  lean  hand:  —  "  Dost  thou  re- 
member yet 

When  the  curved  moon  then  lingering  in 
the  west 

"  Paused  in  yon  waves  her  mighty  horns 

to  wet, 
How    in    those    beams    we    walkt,    half 

resting  on  the  sea? 
'Tis  just  one  year  —  sure  thou  dost  not 

forget  — 

"Then   Plato's  words  of  light  in  thee 

and  me 
Lingered  like  moonlight  in  the  moonless 

east, 
For  we  had  just  then  read  —  thy  memory 

"  Is  faithful  now  —  the  story  of  the  fea*t; 
And  Agathon  and  Diotima  seemed 
From  death  and   dark  forgetfulness  re- 
least. 


FRAGMENT    III. 

'Twas  at  the  season  when  the  Earth  up- 

springs 
From  slumber,  as  a  sphered  angel's  child, 
Shadowing  its  eyes  with  green  and  gold- 
en wings, 

Stands  up  before  its  mother  bright  and 

mild, 
Of  whose   soft   voice  the   air   expectant 

seems  — 
So  stood   before  the  sun,  which   shone 

and  smiled 

To  see  it  rise  thus  joyous  from  its  dreams, 
The  fresh  and  radiant  Earth.     The  hoary 

grove 
Waxt    green  —  and   flowers    burst    fortli 

like  starry  beams  ; — • 


PRINCE  ATHANASE. 


231 


The  grass  in  the  warm  sun  did  start  and 

move, 
And  sea-buds  burst   beneath  the  waves 

serene :  — 
How  many  a  one,  though  none  be  near 

to  love, 

Loves  then  the  shade  of  his  own  soul, 

half  seen 
In  any  mirror  —  or  the  spring's  young 

minions, 
The    winged    leaves    amid    the    copses 

green;  — 

How  many  a  spirit   then    puts   on  the 

pinions 
Of  fancy,  and  outstrips  the  lagging  blast, 
And   his    own    steps  —  and    over    wide 

dominions 

Sweeps  in  his  dream-drawn  chariot,  far 

and  fast, 
More  fleet  than  storms  —  the  wide  world 

shrinks  below, 
When     winter     and    despondency    are 

past. 

'T  was  at  this  season  that  Prince  Athanase 
Past  the  white  Alps  —  those   eagle-baf- 
fling mountains 
Slept  in  their  shrouds  of  snow;  —  beside 
the  ways 

The  waterfalls  were  voiceless  —  for  their 

fountains 
Were  changed  to  mines  of  sunless  crystal 

now, 
Or  by  the  curdling  winds  —  like  brazen 

wings 

Which    clanged    along    the    mountain's 

marble  brow  — 
Warpt  into  adamantine  fretwork,  hung 
And  filled  with  frozen  light   the  chasm 

below. 


FRAGMENT    IV. 

Thou  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness 

is  all 
W-  cr:i  '1'>s'r  -,  n  Lov?  '  nrH  hpppy  souls, 


Ere  from  thy  vine  the  leaves  of  autumn 
fall, 

Catch  thee,   and  feed  from   their   o'ei- 

flowing  bowls 
Thousands  who  thirst  for  thy  ambrosial 

dew;  — 
Thou    art    the    radiance    which    where 

ocean  rolls 

Investest  it;   and  when  the  heavens  are 

blue 
Thou  fillest  them;  and  when  the  earth 

is  fair 
The  shadow  of  thy  moving  wings  imbue 

Its  deserts  and  its  mountains,  till  they 

wear 
Beauty    like    some    bright   robe; — thou 

ever  soarest 
Among  the  towers  of  men,  and  as  soft  air 

In  spring,  which  moves  the  unawakened 

forest, 
Clothing  with  leaves  its  branches  bare 

and  bleak, 
Thou  floatest  among  men;   and  aye  im- 

plorest 

That  which  from  thee  they  should  im- 
plore :  —  the  weak 

Alone  kneel  to  thee,  offering  up  the 
hearts 

The  strong  have  broken  —  yet  where 
shall  any  seek 

A  garment  whom  thou  clothest  not? 


ANOTHER    FRAGMENT. 

Her  hair  was  brown,  her  sphered   »yes 

were  brown, 
And  in  their  dark  and    liquid  moisture 

swam, 
Like  the  dim  orb  of  the  eclipsed  moon; 

Yet     when    the    spirit    flasht    beneath, 

there  came 
The  light   from  them,  as  when  tears  0/ 

delight 
Double  the  western  planet's  serene  flame 


232 


K0SAL1XD   AND  HELEN. 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 

A  MODERN    ECLOGUE. 
ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  story  of  "  Rosalind  and  Helen  " 
is,  undoubtedly,  not  an  attempt  in  the 
highest  style  of  poetry.  It  is  in  no  de- 
gree calculated  to  excite  profound  medi- 
tation; and  if,  by  interesting  the  affections 
and  amusing  the  imagination,  it  awaken  a 
certain  ideal  melancholy  favorable  to  the 
reception  of  more  important  impressions, 
it  will  produce  in  the  reader  all  that  the 
writer  experienced  in  the  composition.  I 
resigned  myself,  as  I  wrote,  to  the  im- 
pulse of  the  feelings  which  moulded  the 
conception  of  the  story;  and  this  im- 
pulse determined  the  pauses  of  a  meas- 
ure, which  only  pretends  to  be  regular 
inasmuch  as  it  corresponds  with,  and 
expresses,  the  irregularity  of  the  imagina- 
tions which  inspired  it. 

I  do  not  know  which  of  the  few  scattered 
poems  I  left  in  England  will  be  selected 
by  my  bookseller  to  add  to  this  collection. 
One,1  which  I  sent  from  Italy,  was  written 
after  a  day's  excursion  among  those  lovely 
mountains  which  surround  what  was  once 
the  retreat,  and  where  is  now  the  sepul- 
chre, of  Petrarch.  If  any  one  is  inclined 
to  condemn  the  insertion  of  the  intro- 
ductory lines,  which  image  forth  the  sud- 
den relief  of  a  state  of  deep  despondency 
by  the  radiant  visions  disclosed  by  the 
sudden  burst  of  an  Italian  sunrise  in 
autumn  on  the  highest  peak  of  those 
delightful  mountains,  I  can  only  offer  as 
my  excuse,  that  they  were  not  erased  at 
the  request  of  a  dear  friend,  with  whom 
added  years  of  intercourse  only  add  to 
my  apprehension  of  its  value,  and  who 
would  have  had  more  right  than  any  one 
to  complain  that  she  has  not  been  able 
to  extinguish  in  me  the  very  power  of 
delineating  sadness. 

Naples,  Dec.  20,  1818. 


1  "  Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills 
-Ed. 


Rosalind,  Helen  and  her  Child. 
Scene.    The  Shore  of  the  Lake  of  Como. 

HELEN. 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind. 

'T  is  long  since  thou  and  I  have  met; 

And  yet  methinks  it  were  unkind 

Those  moments  to  forget. 

Come  sit  by  me.     I  see  thee  stand 

By  this  lone  lake,  in  this  far  land, 

Thy  loose  hair  in  the  light  wind  flying, 

Thy  sweet  voice  to  each  tone  of  even 

United,  and  thine  eyes  replying 

To  the  hues  of  yon  fair  heaven. 

Come,  gentle  friend:   wilt  sit  by  me? 

And  be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be 

Ere  we  were  disunited? 

None  doth  behold  us  now :   the  power 

That  led  us  forth  at  this  lone  hour 

Will  be  but  ill  requited 

If  thou  depart  in  scorn:    oh  !   come, 

And  talk  of  our  abandoned  home. 

Remember,  this  is  Italy, 

And  we  are  exiles.     Talk  with  me 

Of  that  our  land,  whose  wilds  and  floods, 

Barren  and  dark  although  they  be, 

Were  dearer  than  these  chestnut  woods : 

Those  heathy  paths,  that  inland  stream, 

And   the   blue   mountains,  shapes  which 

seem 
Like  wrecks  of  childhood's  sunny  dream  : 
Which  that  we  have  abandoned  now, 
Weighs  on  the  heart  like  that  remorse 
Which  altered  friendship  leaves.     I  seek 
No  more  our  youthful  intercourse. 
That  cannot  be  !   Rosalind,  speak, 
Speak  to  me.     Leave  me  not. — -When 

morn  did  come, 
When  evening    fell    upon    our    common 

home, 
When  for  one  hour  we  parted,  —  do  not 

frown: 
I    would    not     chide     thee,    though    thy 

faith  is  broken : 
But  turn  to  me.     Oh  !   by  this  cherished 

token, 
Of     woven    hair,    which    thou    wilt    not 

disown, 
Turn,  as  't  were  but  the  memory  of  me, 
And  not  my  scorned  self  who  prayed  to 

thee. 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN. 


233 


ROSALIND. 

Is  it  a  dream,  or  do  I  see 
And  hear  frail  Helen?     I  would  flee 
Thy  tainting  touch;    but  former  years 
Arise,  and  bring  forbidden  tears; 
And  my  o'erburdened  memory 
Seeks  yet  its  lost  repose  in  thee. 
I  share  thy  crime.     I  cannot  choose 
But   weep  for  thee :   mine   own  strange 

grief 
But  seldom  stoops  to  such  relief: 
Nor  ever  did  I  love  thee  less, 
Though  mourning  o'er  thy  wickedness 
Even  with  a  sister's  woe.     I  knew 
What  to  the  evil  world  is  due, 
And  therefore  sternly  did  refuse 
To  link  me  with  the  infamy 
Of  one  so  lost  as  Helen.     Now 
Bewildered  by  my  dire  despair, 
Wondering  I  blush,  and  weep  that  thou 
Shoulds't  love  me  still,  —  thou  only!  — 

There, 
Let  us  sit  on  that  gray  stone, 
Till  our  mournful  talk  be  done. 

HELEN. 

Alas!  not  there;    I  cannot  bear 

The  murmur  of  this  lake  to  hear. 

A  sound  from  there,  Rosalind  dear, 

Which  never  yet  I  heard  elsewhere 

But  in  our  native  land,  recurs, 

Even  here  where  now  we  meet.     It  stirs 

Too  much  of  suffocating  sorrow  ! 

In  the  dell  of  yon  dark  chestnut  wood 

Is  a  stone  seat,  a  solitude 

Less  like  our  own.     The  ghost  of  peace 

Will  not  desert  this  spot.     To-morrow, 

If  thy  kind  feelings  should  not  cease, 

We  may  sit  here. 

ROSALIND. 

Thou  lead,  my  sweet, 
And  I  will  follow. 

HENRY. 

'Tis  Fenici's  seat 
Where  you  are  going?     This  is  not  the 

way. 
Mamma;     it    leads   behind    those    trees 

that  grow 
Close  to  the  little  river. 


HELEN. 

Yes:   I  know: 
I  was  bewildered.     Kiss  me,  and  be  gay, 
Dear  boy:   why  do  you  sob? 

HENRY. 

I  do  not  know : 
But  it  might  break  any  one's  heart    to 

see 
You  and  the  lady  cry  so  bitterly. 


It    is   a    gentle    child,    my    friend.      Go 

home, 
Henry,  and  play  with  Lilla  till  I  come. 
We  only  cried  with  joy  to  see  each  other; 
We  are  quite  merry  now:   Good-night. 

The  boy 
Lifted  a  sudden  look  upon  his  mother, 
And  in  the  gleam  of  forced  and  hollow 

joy 
Which    lightened    o'er  her  face,   laught 

with  the  glee 
Of  light  and  unsuspecting  infancy, 
And  whispered  in  her  ear,  "Bring  home 

with  you 
That  sweet  strange  lady  friend."     Then 

off  he  flew, 
But  stopt,  and  beckoned  with  a  mean- 
ing smile, 
Where  the  road  turned.     Pale  Rosalind 

the  while, 
Hiding  her  face,  stood  weeping  silently. 

In  silence  then  they  took  the  way 

Beneath  the  forest's  solitude. 

It  was  a  vast  and  antique  wood, 

Thro'  which  they  took  their  way; 

And  the  gray  shades  of  evening 

O'er  that  green  wilderness  did  fling 

Still  deeper  solitude. 

Pursuing  still  the  path  that  wound 

The  vast  and  knotted  trees  around 

Thro'  which  slow  shades  were  wandering, 

To  a  deep  lawny  dell  they  came, 

To  a  stone  seat  beside  a  spring, 

O'er  which  the  columned  wood  did  frame 

A  roofless  temple,  like  the  fane 

Where,  ere  new  creeds  could  faith  obtain, 

Man's  early  race  once  knelt  beneath 


234 


ROSALIND   AND  HELEN. 


The  overhanging  deity. 

O'er  this  fair  fountain  hung  the  sky, 

Now    spangled    with    rare    stars.       The 

snake, 
The  pale  snake,  that  with  eager  breath 
Creeps  here  his  noontide  thirst  to  slake, 
Is  beaming  with  many  a  mingled  hue, 
Shed  from  yon  dome's  eternal  blue, 
When  he  floats  on  that  dark  and  lucid 

flood 
In  the  light  of  his  own  loveliness; 
And  the  birds  that  in  the  fountain  dip 
Their  plumes,  with  fearless  fellowship 
Above  and  round  him  wheel  and  hover. 
The  fitful  wind  is  heard  to  stir 
One  solitary  leaf  on  high; 
The  chirping  of  the  grasshopper 
Fills  every  pause.     There  is  emotion 
In  all  that  dwells  at  noontide  here: 
Then,  thro'  the  intricate  wild  wood, 
A  maze  of  life  and  light  and  motion 
Is  woven.     But  there  is  stillness  now: 
Gloom,  and  the  trance  of  Nature  now: 
The  snake  is  in  his  cave  asleep; 
The  birds  are  on  the  branches  dreaming: 
Only  the  shadows  creep : 
Only  the  glow-worm  is  gleaming: 
Only  the  owls  and  the  nightingales 
Wake  in  this  dell  when  daylight  fails, 
And  gray  shades  gather  in  the  woods : 
And  the  owls  have  all  fled  far  away 
In  a  merrier  glen  to  hoot  and  play, 
For  the  moon  is  veiled  and  sleeping  now. 
The  accustomed  nightingale  still  broods 
On  her  accustomed  bough, 
But  she  is  mute;    for  her  false  mate 
Has  fled  and  left  her  desolate. 

This  silent  spot  tradition  old 

Had  peopled  with  the  spectral  dead. 

For  the  roots  of  the  speaker's  hair  felt 

cold 
And  stiff,  as  with  tremulous  lips  he  told 
That  a  hellish  shape  at  midnight  led 
The  ghost  of  a  youth  with  hoary  hair, 
And  sate  on  the  seat  beside  him  there, 
Till  a  naked  child  came  wandering  by, 
When  the  fiend  would  change  to  a  lady 

fair  ! 
A  fearful  tale  !     The  truth  was  worse: 
For  here  a  sister  and  a  brother 
Had  solemnized  a  monstrous  curse, 
Meeting  in  this  fair  solitude: 


For  beneath  yon  very  sky, 
Had  they  resigned  to  one  another 
Body  and  soul.     The  multitude, 
Tracking  them  to  the  secret  wood, 
Tore  limb  from  limb  their  innocent  child. 
And  stabbed  and  trampled  on  its  mother; 
But  the  youth,  for  God's  most  holy  grace, 
A  priest  saved  to  burn  in  the    market- 
place. 

Duly  at  evening  Helen  came 

To  this  lone  silent  spot, 

From    the  wrecks    of    a  tale    of    wilder 

sorrow 
So  much  of  sympathy  to  barrow 
As  soothed  her  own  dark  lot. 
Duly  each  evening  from  her  home, 
With  her  fair  child  would  Helen  come 
To  sit  upon  that  antique  seat, 
While  the  hues  of  day  were  pale; 
And  the  bright  boy  beside  her  feet 
Now  lay,  lifting  at  intervals 
His  broad  blue  eyes  on  her; 
Now,  where  some  sudden  impulse  calls 
Following.     He  was  a  gentle  boy 
And  in  all  gentle  sports  took  joy; 
Oft  in  a  dry  leaf  for  a  boat, 
With  a  small  feather  for  a  sail, 
His  fancy  on  that  spring  would  float, 
If  some  invisible  breeze  might  stir 
Its  marble  calm :   and  Helen  smiled 
Thro'  tears  of   awe  on  the  gay  child, 
To  think  that  a  boy  as  fair  as  he, 
In  years  which  never  more  may  be, 
By  that  same  fount,  in  that  same  wood, 
The  like  sweet  fancies  had  pursued; 
And  that  a  mother,  lost  like  her, 
Had  mournfully  sate  watching  him. 
Then  all  the  scene  was  wont  to  swim 
Through  the  mist  of  a  burning  tear. 

For  many  months  had  Helen  known 
This  scene;    and  now  she  thither  turned 
Her  footsteps,  not  alone. 
The    friend    whose    falsehood    she    had 

mourned, 
Sate  with  her  on  that  seat  of  stone. 
Silent  they  sate;    for  evening, 
And  the  power  its  glimpses  bring 
Had,  with  one  awful  shadow,  quelled 
The  passion  of  their  grief.     They  sate 
With  linked  hands,  for  unrepelled 
Had  Helen  taken  Rosalind's. 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN 


n\ 


Like  the  autumn  wind,  when  it  unbinds 
The  tangled   locks   of    the  nightshade's 

hair, 
Which  is  twined    in    the  sultry  summer 

air 
Round  the  walls  of  an  outworn  sepulchre, 
Did  the  voice  of  Helen,  sad  and  sweet, 
And    the  sound    of    her  heart  that  ever 

beat, 
As  with   sighs  and  words  she   breathed 

on  her, 
Unbind  the  knots  of  her  friend's  despair, 
Till  her  thoughts  were  free  to  float  and 

flow ; 
And  from  her  laboring  bosom  now, 
Like  the  bursting  of  a  prisoned  flame, 
The  voice  of  a  long-pent  sorrow  came. 

ROSALIND. 

I  saw  the  dark  earth  fall  upon 
The  coffin;   and  I  saw  the  stone 
Laid  over  him  whom  this  cold  breast 
Had  pillowed  to  his  nightly  rest ! 
Thou  knowest  not,  thou  canst  not  know 
My  agony.     Oh  !   I  could  not  weep  : 
The  sources  whence  such  blessings  flow 
Were  not  to  be  approacht  by  me  ! 
But  I  could  smile,  and  I  could  sleep, 
Though  with  a  self-accusing  heart. 
In  morning's  light,  in  evening's  gloom, 
I   watcht, — and   would  not  thence   de- 
part — 
My  husband's  unlamented  tomb. 
My  children  knew  their  sire  was  gone, 
But  when  I  told  them, — "he  is  dead," — 
They  laught  aloud  in  frantic  glee, 
They     clapt     their     hands     and     leapt 

about, 
Answering  each  other's  ecstasy 
With  many  a  prank  and  merry  shout. 
But  I  sat  silent  and  alone, 
Wrapt  in  the  mock  of  mourning  weed. 

They  laught,  for  he  was  dead:   but  I 
Sate  with  a  hard  and  tearless  eye, 
And  with  a  heart  which  would  deny 
The  secret  joy  it  could  not  quell, 
Low  muttering  o'er  his  loathed  name; 
Till  from  that  self-contention  came 
Remorse  where  sin  was  none;    a  hell 
Which  in  pure  spirits  should  not  dwell. 


I'll  tell  thee  truth.     He  was  a  man 
Hard,  selfish,  loving  only  gold, 
Yet  full  of  guile :   his  pale  eyes  ran 
With  tears,  which  each  some  falsehood 

told, 
And  oft  his  smooth  and  bridled  tongue 
Would  give  the  lie  to  his  flushing  cheek  : 
He  was  a  coward  to  the  strong: 
He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak, 
On  whom  his  vengeance  he  would  wreak  : 
For  scorn,  whose  arrows  search  the  heart, 
From  many  a  stranger's  eye  would  dart, 
And  on  his  memory  cling,  and  follow 
His  soul  to  its  home  so  cold  and  hollow. 
He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak, 
And  we  were  such,  alas  the  day  ! 
Oft,  when  my  little  ones  at  play, 
Were  in  youth's  natural  lightness  gay, 
Or  if  they  listened  to  some  tale 
Of  travellers,  or  of  fairy  land,  — 
When    the    light    from    the    wood-fire's 

dying  brand 
Flasht  on  their  faces,  —  if  they  heard 
Or  thought  they  heard  upon  the  stair 
His  footstep,  the  suspended  word 
Died  on  my  lips:   we  all  grew  pale: 
The  babe  at  my  bosom  was  husht  with 

fear 
If  it  thought  it  heard  its  father  near; 
And  my  two  wild  boys  would  near  my 

knee 
Cling,  cowed  and  cowering  fearfully. 

I'll  tell  thee  truth:    I  loved  another. 
His  name  in  my  ear  was  ever  ringing, 
His  form  to  my  brain  was  ever  clinging: 
Yet  if  some  stranger  breathed  that  name, 
My  lips  turned  white,  and  my  heart  beat 

fast: 
My  nights  were  once  haunted  by  dreams 

of  flame, 
My  days  were  dim  in  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  memory  of  the  same  ! 
Day  and  night,  day  and  night, 
He  was  my  breath  and  life  and  light, 
For  three  short  years,  which  soon  were 

past. 
On  the  fourth,  my  gentle  mother 
Led  me  to  the  shrine,  to  be 
His  sworn  bride  eternally. 
And  now  we  stood  on  the  altar  stair, 
When    my   father  came   from   a   distant 

land, 


236 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


And  with  a  loud  and  fearful  cry 

Rusht  between  us  suddenly. 

I  saw  the  stream  of  his  thin  gray  hair, 

I  saw  his  lean  and  lifted  hand, 

And  heard  his  words,  —  and  live  !     Oh 

God! 
Wherefore  do  I  live?  —  "  Hold,  hold  !  " 
He  cried,  —  "I  tell  thee  't  is  her  brother  ! 
Thy  mother,  boy,  beneath  the  sod 
Of  yon  churchyard  rests   in  her  shroud 

so  cold: 
[  am  now  weak,  and  pale,  and  old: 
We  were  once  dear  to  one  another, 
I  and  that  corpse  !    Thou  art  our  child  !  " 
Then  with  a  laugh  both  long  and  wild 
The  youth  upon  the  pavement  fell : 
They  found  him  dead  !     All  looked  on 

me, 
The  spasms  of  my  despair  to  see: 
But  I  was  calm.      I  went  away: 
I  was  clammy-cold  like  clay  ! 
I  did  not  weep:   I  did  not  speak: 
But  day  by  day,  week  after  week, 
I  walkt  about  like  a  corpse  alive  ! 
Alas  !  sweet  friend,  you  must  believe 
This  heart  is  stone :   it  did  not  break. 

My  father  lived  a  little  while, 
But  all  might  see  that  he  was  dying, 
He  smiled  with  such  a  woeful  smile  ! 
When  he  was  in  the  churchyard  lying 
Among  the  worms,  we  grew  quite  poor, 
So  that  no  one  would  give  us  bread : 
My  mother  lookt  at  me,  and  said 
Faint  words  of  cheer,  which  only  meant 
That  she  could  die  and  be  content; 
So  I  went  forth  from  the  same  church 

door 
To  another  husband's  bed. 
And  this  was  he  who  died  at  last, 
When  weeks  and  months  and  years  had 

past, 
Through  which  I  firmly  did  fulfil 
My  duties,  a  devoted  wife, 
With  the  stern  step  of  vanquisht  will, 
Walking  beneath  the  night  of  life, 
Whose     hours     extinguisht,     like     slow 

rain 
Falling  for  ever,  pain  by  pain, 
The  very  hope  of  death's  dear  rest; 
Which,  since  the  heart  within  my  breast 
Of  natural  life  was  dispossest, 
Its  strange  sustainer  there  had  been. 


When  flowers  were  dead,  and  grass  was 

green 
Upon  my  mother's  grave, — that  mother 
Whom  to  outlive,  and  cheer,  and  make 
My  wan  eyes  glitter  for  her  sake, 
Was  my  vowed  task,  the  single  care 
Which  once  gave  life  to  my  despair,  — 
When  she  was  a  thing  that  did  not  stir 
And  the  crawling  worms  were  cradling 

her 
To  a  sleep  more  deep  and  so  more  sweet 
Than  a  baby's  rockt  on  its  nurse's  knee, 
I  lived :   a  living  pulse  then  beat 
Beneath  my  heart  that  awakened  me. 
What  was  this  pulse  so  warm  and  free? 
Alas  !     I  knew  it  could  not  be 
My  own  dull  blood  :  't  was  like  a  thought 
Of  liquid  love,  that  spread  and  wrought 
Under  my  bosom  and  in  my  brain, 
And  crept  with  the  blood  through  every 

vein; 
And  hour  by  hour,  day  after  day, 
The  wonder  could  not  charm  away, 
But  laid  in  sleep,  my  wakeful  pain, 
Until  I  knew  it  was  a  child, 
And  then  I  wept.     For  long,  long  years 
These  frozen  eyes  had  shed  no  tears : 
But  now  —  't  was  the  season  fair  and  mild 
When  April  has  wept  itself  to  May: 
I  sate  through  the  sweet  sunny  day 
By   my    window    bowered    round    with 

leaves, 
And  down  my  cheeks  the  quick  tears  ran 
Like  twinkling  rain-drops  from  the  eaves, 
When  warm  spring  showers  are  passing 

o'er: 

0  Helen,  none  can  ever  tell 

The  joy  it  was  to  weep  once  more  ! 

1  wept  to  think  how  hard  it  were 
To  kill  my  babe,  and  take  from  it 
The  sense  of  light,  and  the  warm  air, 
And  my  own  fond  and  tender  care, 
And  love  and  smiles;    ere  I  knew  yet 
That  these  for  it  might,  as  for  me, 
Be  the  masks  of  a  grinning  mockery. 
And  haply,  I  would  dream,  't  were  sweet 
To  feed  it  from  my  faded  breast, 

Or  mark  my  own  heart's  restless  beat 
Rock  it  to  its  untroubled  rest, 
And  watch  the  growing  soul  beneath 
Dawn    in     faint     smiles;     and    hear    its 
breath, 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


237 


Half  interrupted  by  calm  sighs, 
And  search  the  depth  of  its  fair  eyes 
For  long  departed  memories  ! 
And  so  I  lived  till  that  sweet  load 
Was  lightened.     Darkly  forward  flowed 
The  stream  of  years,  and  on  it  bore 
Two  shapes  of  gladness  to  my  sight; 
Two  other  babes,  delightful  more 
In  my  lost  soul's  abandoned  night, 
Than  their  own  country  ships  may  be 
Sailing  towards  wrecked  mariners, 
Who  cling  to  the  rock  of  a  wintry  sea. 
For  each,   as  it  came,  brought  soothing 

tears, 
And    a  loosening  warmth,  as  each    one 

lay 
Sucking  the  sullen  milk  away. 
About  my  frozen  heart,  did  play, 
And  weaned  it,  oh  how  painfully  !  — 
As    they  themselves  were  weaned   each 

one 
From  that  sweet  food,  —  even  from  the 

thirst 
Of  death,  and  nothingness,  and  rest, 
Strange  inmate  of  a  living  breast ! 
Which  all  that  I  had  undergone 
Of  grief  and  shame,  since  she,  who  first 
The  gates  of  that  dark  refuge  closed, 
Came  to  my  sight,  and  almost  burst 
The  seal  of  that  Lethean  spring; 
But  these  fair  shadows  interposed: 
For  all  delights  are  shadows  now  ! 
And  from  my  brain  to  my  dull  brow 
The  heavy  tears  gather  and  flow : 
I  cannot  speak  :   Oh  let  me  weep  ! 

The  tears  which  fell  from  her  wan  eyes 
Glimmered  among  the  moonlight  dew: 
Her  deep  hard  sobs  and  heavy  sighs 
Their  echoes  in  the  darkness  threw. 
When  she  grew  calm,  she  thus  did  keep 
The  tenor  of  her  tale  : 

He  died : 
I  know  not  how :    he  was  not  old, 
If  age  be  numbered  by  its  years: 
But  he  was  bowed  and  bent  with  fears, 
Pale  with  a  quenchless  thirst  of  gold, 
Which,  like  fierce  fever  left  him  weak; 
And  his  strait  lip  and  bloated  cheek 
Were    warpt     in    spasms     by      hollow 

sneers; 
And  selfish  cares  with  barren  plough, 
Not  age,  had  lined  his  narrow  brow, 


And   faul    and    cruel    thoughts,    which 

feed 
Upon  the  withering  life  within. 
Like  vipers  on  some  poisonous  weed. 
Whether  his  ill  were  death  or  sin 
None  knew,  until  he  died  indeed, 
And    then    men    owned    they    were    the 

same. 
Seven  days  within  my  chamber  lay 
That  corse,  and  my  babes  made  holiday: 
At  last,  I  told  them  what  is  death : 
The  eldest,  with  a  kind  of  shame, 
Came  to  my  knees  with  silent  breath, 
And  sate  awe-stricken  at  my  feet; 
And  soon  the  others  left  their  play, 
And  sate  there  too.      It  is  unmeet 
To  shed  on  the  brief  flower  of  youth 
The  withering  knowledge  of  the  grave; 
From  me  remorse  then  wrung  that  truth. 
I  could  not  bear  the  joy  which  gave 
Too  just  a  response  to  mine  own. 
In  vain.     I  dared  not  feign  a  groan; 
And  in  their  artless  looks  I  saw, 
Between  the  mists  of  fear  and  awe, 
That  my  own  thought  was   theirs;    and 

they 
Expresst  it  not  in  words,  but  said, 
Each  in  its  heart,  how  every  day 
Will  pass  in  happy  work  and  play, 
Now  he  is  dead  and  gone  away. 

After  the  funeral  all  our  kin 
Assembled,  and  the  will  was  read. 
My  friend,  I  tell  thee,  even  the  dead 
Have     strength,  their     putrid     shrouds 

within, 
To  blast  and  torture.     Those  who  live 
Still  fear  the  living,  but  a  corse 
Is  merciless,  and  Power  doth  give 
To  such  pale  tyrants  half  the  spoil 
He  rends  from  those  who  groan  and  toil, 
Because  they  blush  not  with  remorse 
Among  their  crawling  worms.      Behold, 
I  have  no  child  !   my  tale  grows  old 
With  grief,  and  staggers :   let  it  reach 
The  limits  of  my  feeble  speech, 
And  languidly  at  length  recline 
On  the  brink  of  its  own  grave  and  mine 

Thou  knowest  what  a  thing  is  Poverty 
Among  the  fallen  on  evil  days: 
'Tis  Crime,  and  Fear,  and  Infamy, 
And  houseless  Want  in  frozen  ways 


^ 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


Wandering  ungarmented,  and  Pain, 
And,  worse  than  all,  that  inward  stain, 
P'oul    Self-contempt,    which    drowns    in 

sneers 
Youth's    starlight    smile,  and    makes  its 

tears 
First  like  hot  gall,  then  dry  forever  ! 
And  well  thou  knowest  a  mother  never 
Could  doom  her  children  to  this  ill, 
And  well  he  knew  the  same.     The  will 
Imported,  that  if  e'er  again 
I  sought  my  children  to  behold, 
Or  in  my  birthplace  did  remain 
Beyond  three  days, whose  hours  were  told, 
They  should  inherit  naught :   and  he, 
To  whom  next  came  their  patrimony, 
A  sallow  lawyer,  cruel  and  cold, 
Aye  watched  me,  as  the  will  was  read, 
With  eyes  askance,  which  sought  to  see 
The  secrets  of  my  agony; 
And  with  close  lips  and  anxious  brow 
Stood  canvassing  still  to  and  fro 
The  chance  of  my  resolve,  and  all 
The  dead  man's  caution  just  did  call; 
For  in  that  killing  lie  'twas  said  — 
"She  is  adulterous,  and  doth  hold 
In  secret  that  the  Christian  creed 
Is  false,  and  therefore  is  much  need 
That  I  should  have  a  care  to  save 
My  children  from  eternal  fire." 
Friend,  he  was  sheltered  by  the  grave, 
And  therefore  dared  to  be  a  liar  ! 
In  truth,  the  Indian  on  the  pyre 
Of  her  dead  husband,  half  consumed, 
As  well  might  there  be  false,  as  I 
To  those  abhorred  embraces  doomed, 
Far  worse  than  fire's  brief  agony. 
As  to  the  Christian  creed,  if  true 
Or  false,  I  never  questioned  it: 
I  took  it  as  the  vulgar  do : 
Nor  my  vext  soul  had  leisure  yet 
To  doubt  the  things  men  say,  or  deem 
That  they  are  other  than  they  seem. 

All  present  who  those  crimes  did  hear, 
In  feigned  or  actual  scorn  and  fear, 
Men,  women,  children,  slunk  away, 
Whispering  with  self-contented  pride, 
Which  half  suspects  its  own  base  lie. 
I  spoke  to  none,  nor  did  abide, 
But  silently  I  went  my  way, 
Nor  noticed  I  where  joyously 
.nle  my  two  younger  babes  at  play, 


In  the  court-yard  through  which  I  past; 
But  went  with  footsteps  firm  and  fast 
Till   I   came  to  the  brink  of   the  ocean 

green, 
And  there,  a  woman  with  gray  hairs, 
Who  had  my  mother's  servant  been, 
Kneeling,  with  many  tears  and  prayers, 
Made  me  accept  a  purse  of  gold, 
Half  of  the  earnings  she  had  kept 
To  refuge  her  when  weak  and  old. 
With  woe,  which  never  sleeps  or  slept, 
I  wander  now.      'Tis  a  vain  thought  — 
But  on  yon  alp,  whose  snowy  head     ■ 
Mid  the  azure  air  is  islanded, 
(We  see  it  o'er  the  flood  of  cloud, 
Which  sunrise  from  its  eastern  caves 
Drives,  wrinkling  into  golden  waves, 
Hung  with  its  precipices  proud, 
P'rom  that  gray  stone  where  first  we  met) 
There  —  now  who  knows  the  dead  feel 

naught  ?  — 
Should  be  my  grave;  for  he  who  yet 
Is  my  soul's  soul,   once  said:   "'Twere 

sweet 
Mid  stars  and  lightnings  to  abide, 
And  winds  and  lulling  snows,  that  beat 
With  their  soft  flakes  the  mountain  wide, 
When  weary  meteor  lamps  repose, 
And  languid  storms  their  pinions  close : 
And    all    things  strong    and    bright  and 

pure, 
And  ever  during,  aye  endure : 
Who  knows,  if   one  were  buried  there, 
But  these  things  might  our  spirits  make, 
Amid  the  all-surrounding  air, 
Their  own  eternity  partake?  " 
Then  'twas  a  wild  and  playful  saying 
At  which  I  laught,  or  seemed  to  laugh: 
They    were    his    words :    now    heed    my 

praying, 
And  let  them  be  my  epitaph. 
Thy  memory  for  a  term  may  be 
My  monument.      Wilt  remember  me? 
I  know  thou  wilt,  and  canst  forgive 
Whilst  in  this  erring  world  to  live 
My  soul  disdained  not,  that  I  thought 
Its  lying  forms  were  worthy  aught 
And  much  less  thee. 


O  speak  not  so, 
But  come  to  me  and  pour  thy  woe 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


239 


Into  this  heart,  full  though  it  be, 

Aye  overflowing  with  its  own : 

I  thought  that  grief  had  severed  me 

From  all  beside  who  weep  and  groan; 

Its  likeness  upon  earth  to  be, 

Its  express  image;    but  thou  art 

More  wretched.      Sweet !    we  will    not 

part 
Henceforth,  if  death  be  not  division; 
If  so,  the  dead  feel  no  contrition. 
But  wilt  thou  hear,  since  last  we  parted 
All  that  has  left  me  broken-hearted? 

ROSALIND. 

Yes,    speak.       The    faintest     stars    are 

scarcely  shorn 
Of  their  thin  beams  by  that  delusive  morn 
Which  sinks  again  in  darkness,  like  the 

light 
Of  early  love,  soon  lost  in  total  night. 


Alas  !   Italian  winds  are  mild, 

But  my  bosom  is  cold  —  wintry  cold  — 

When  the  warm  air  weaves,  among  the 

fresh  leaves, 
Soft  music,  my  poor  brain  is  wild, 
And  I  am  weak  like  a  nursling  child, 
Though  my  soul  with  grief  is  gray  and 

old. 


Weep  not  at  thine  own  words,  though 

they  must  make 
Me  weep.     What  is  thy  tale? 


I  fear  't  will  shake 
Thy  gentle  heart  with  tears.     Thou  well 
Rememberest  when  we  met  no  more, 
And,  though  I  dwelt  with  Lionel, 
That  friendless  caution  pierced  me  sore 
With- grief;    a  wound  my  spirit  bore 
Indignantly;    but  when  he  died 
With  him  lay  dead  both  hope  and  pride. 

Alas!   all  hope  is  buried  now. 
But  then  men  dreamed  the  aged  earth 
Was  laboring  in  that  mighty  birth, 
Which  many  a  poet  and  a  sage 
Has  aye  foreseen  —  the  happy  age 


When  truth  and  love  shall  dwell  below 
Among  the  works  and  ways  of  men; 
Which  on  this  world  not  power  but  will 
Even  now  is  wanting  to  fulfil. 

Among  mankind  what  thence  befel 
Of  strife,  how  vain,  is  known  too  well; 
When  liberty's  dear  paean  fell 
Mid  murderous  howls.     To  Lionel, 
Though  of  great  wealth  and  lineage  high, 
Yet    thro'    those    dungeon    walls    there 

came 
Thy  thrilling  light,  O  Liberty  ! 
And  as  the  meteor's  midnight  flame 
Startles  the  dreamer,  sun-like  truth 
Flasht  on  his  visionary  youth, 
And  filled  him,  not  with  love,  but  faith, 
And  hope,  and  courage  mute  in  death; 
For  love  and  life  in  him  were  twins, 
Born  at  one  birth :   in  every  other 
First  life,  then  love,  its  course  begins, 
Though  they  be  children  of  one  mother; 
And    so     thro'     this    dark    world    they 

fleet 
Divided,  till  in  death  they  meet: 
But  he  loved  all  things  ever.     Then 
He  past  amid  the  strife  of  men, 
And  stood  at  the  throne  of  armed  power 
Pleading  for  a  world  of  woe : 
Secure  as  one  on  a  rock-built  tower 
O'er  the  wrecks  which  the   surge  trails 

to  and  fro, 
Mid  the  passions  wild  of  human  kind 
He  stood,  like  a  spirit  calming  them; 
For,  it  was  said,  his  words  could  bind 
Like  music  the  lulled  crowd,  and  stem 
That  torrent  of  unquiet  dream, 
Which  mortals  truth  and  reason  deem, 
But  is  revenge,  and  fear,  and  pride. 
Joyous  he  was;    and  hope  and  peace 
On  all  who  heard  him  did  abide, 
Raining  like  dew  from  his  sweet  talk, 
As  where  the  evening  star  may  walk 
Along  the  brink  of  the  gloomy  seas, 
Liquid  mists  of  splendor  quiver. 
His  very  gestures  toucht  to  tears 
The  unpersuaded  tyrant,  never 
So  moved  before :   his  presence  stung 
The  torturers  with  their  victim's  pain, 
And  none   knew  how;    and  thro'   theii 

ears, 
The  subtle  witchcraft  of  his  tongue 
Unlockt  the  hearts  of  those  who  keep 


240 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


Gold,  the  world's  bond  of  slavery. 
Men  wondered,  and  some  sneered  to  see 
One  sow  what  he  could  never  reap : 
For  he  is  rich,  they  said,  and  young, 
And    might    drink    from    the    depths    of 

luxury. 
If  he  seeks  fame,  fame  never  crowned 
The  champion  of  a  trampled  creed: 
If  he  seeks  power,  power  is  enthroned 
Mid  ancient  rights  and  wrongs,  to  feed 
Which   hungry  wolves  with  praise  and 

spoil, 
Those  who  would  sit  near  power   must 

toil; 
And  such,  there  sitting,  all  may  see. 
What  seeks  he?     All  that  others  seek 
He  casts  away,  like  a  vile  weed 
Which  the  sea  casts  unreturningly. 
That  poor  and  hungry  men  should  break 
The    laws  which  wreak    them    toil    and 

scorn, 
We  understand;   but  Lionel 
We  know  is  rich  and  nobly  born. 
So  wondered  they:   yet  all  men  loved 
Young  Lionel,  though  few  approved; 
All  but  the  priests,  whose  hatred  fell 
Like  the  unseen  blight  of  a  smiling  day, 
The  withering  honey  dew,  which  clings 
Under  the  bright  green  buds  of  May, 
Whilst  they  unfold  their  emerald  wings: 
For  he  made  verses  wild  and  queer 
On   the    strange    creeds  priests   hold  so 

dear, 
Because  they  bring  them  land  and  gold. 
Of  devils  and  saints  and  all  such  gear, 
He  made  tales  which  whoso  heard  or  read 
Would  laugh  till  he  were  almost  dead. 
So  this  grew  a  proverb:  "  Do  n't  get  old 
Till    Lionel's    '  Banquet    in    Hell  '   you 

hear, 
And  then  you  will  laugh  yourself  young 

again." 
So  the  priests  hated  him,  and  he 
Repaid  their  hate  with  cheerful  glee. 

Ah,  smiles  and  joyance  quickly  died, 
For  public  hope  grew  pale  and  dim 
In  an  altered  time  and  tide, 
And  in  its  wasting  withered  him, 
As  a  summer  flower  that  blows  too  soon 
Droops  in  the  smile  of  the  waning  moon, 
When  it  scatters  through  an  April  night 
The  frozen  dews  of   wrinkling  blight. 


None  now   hoped    more.      Gray  Power 

was  seated 
Safely  on  her  ancestral  throne; 
And  Faith,  the  Python,  undefeated, 
Even  to  its  blood-stained   steps  dragged 

on 
Her  foul  and  wounded  train,  and  men 
Were  trampled  and  deceived  again, 
And  words  and  shows  again  could  bind 
The  wailing  tribes  of  human  kind 
In  scorn  and  famine.     Fire  and  blood 
Raged  round  the  raging  multitude, 
To  fields  remote  by  tyrants  sent 
To  be  the  scorned  instrument 
With  which  they  drag    from    mines    of 

gore 
The  chains  their  slaves  yet  ever  wore: 
And  in  the  streets  men  met  each  other, 
And  by  old  altars  and  in  halls, 
And  smiled  again  at  festivals. 
But    each     man    found    in    his    heart's 

brother 
Cold    cheer;     for    all,    though    half    de- 
ceived, 
The  outworn  creeds  again  believed, 
And  the  same  round  anew  began, 
Which  the  weary  world  yet  ever  ran. 

Many  then  wept,  not  tears,  but  gall 
Within  their  hearts,  like  drops  which  fall 
Wasting  the  fountain-stone  away. 
And  in  that  dark  and  evil  day 
Did  all  desires  and  thoughts,  that  claim 
]   Men's  care  —  ambition,  friendship,  fame, 
Love,  hope,  though  hope  was  now  de- 
spair — 
;   Indue  the  colors  of  this  change, 
i   As  from  the  all-surrounding  air 
The  earth  takes  hues  obscure  and  strange, 
When  storm  and  earthquake  linger  there. 

And  so,  my  friend,  it  then  befel 
To  many,  most  to  Lionel, 
Whose  hope  was  like  the  life  of  youth 
Within  him,  and  when  dead,  became 
A  spirit  of  unresting  flame, 
Which  goaded  him  in  his  distress 
Over  the  world's  vast  wilderness. 
Three  years  he  left  his  native  land, 
And  on  the  fourth,  when  he  returned, 
None  knew  him:    he  was  stricken  deep 
With  some  disease  of  mind,  and  turned 
Into  aught  unlike  Lionel. 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN 


241 


On    him,    on   whom,   did  he   pause    in 

sleep, 
Serenest  smiles  were  wont  to  keep, 
And,  did  he  wake,  a  winged  band 
Of  bright  persuasions,  which  had  fed 
On  his  sweet  lips  and  liquid  eyes, 
Kept  their  swift  pinions  half  outspread, 
To  do  on  men  his  least  command; 
On  him,  whom  once  't  was  paradise 
Even  to  behold,  now  misery  lay: 
In  his  own  heart  't  was  merciless, 
To  all  things  else  none  may  express 
Its  innocence  and  tenderness. 

'Twas  said  that  he  had  refuge  sought 
In  love  from  his  unquiet  thought 
In  distant  lands,  and  been  deceived 
By  some  strange  show;    for  there  were 

found, 
Blotted  with  tears  as  those  relieved 
By  their  own  words  are  wont  to  do, 
These  mournful  verses  on  the  ground, 
By  all  who  read  them  blotted  too. 

"How  am  I  changed!  my  hopes  were 
once  like  fire : 
I  loved,  and  I  believed  that  life  was 
love. 
How  am  I  lost !  on  wings  of  swift  desire 
Among  Heaven's  winds  my  spirit  once 
did  move. 
I  slept,  and  silver  dreams  did  aye  inspire 
My  liquid  sleep:   I  woke,  and  did  ap- 
prove 
All  nature  to  my  heart,  and  thought  to 

make 
A  paradise  of  earth  for  one  sweet  sake. 

"  I  love,  but  I  believe  in  love  no  more. 
I  feel  desire,  but  hope  not.     O,  from 
sleep 

Most  vainly  must    my  weary  brain  im- 
plore 
Its  long  lost   flattery  now :    I  wake   to 
weep, 

And  sit  through  the  long  day  gnawing 
the  core 
Of  my  bitter  heart,  and,  like  a  miser, 
keep, 

Since  none  in  what  I  feel  take  pain  or 
pleasure, — 

To  my  own  soul  its  self-consuming  treas- 
ure." 


He  dwelt  beside  me  near  the  sea: 

And  oft  in  evening  did  we  meet, 

When  the  waves,  beneath  the  starlight, 

flee 
O'er  the  yellow  sands  with  silver  feet, 
And  talkt :  our  talk  was  sad  and  sweet, 
Till  slowly  from  his  mien  there  past 
The  desolation  which  it  spoke; 
And  smiles,  —  as  when  the  lightning's 

blast 
Has     parcht      some      heaven-delighting 

oak, 
The  next  spring  shows  leaves  pale  and 

rare, 
But  like  flowers  delicate  and  fair, 
On  its  rent  boughs,  — again  arrayed 
His  countenance  in  tender  light: 
His  words  grew  subtile  fire,  which  made 
The  air  his  hearers  breathed  delight : 
His  motions,  like  the  winds,  were  free, 
Which  bend  the  bright  grass  gracefully, 
Then  fade  away  in  circlets  faint : 
And  winged  hope,  on  which  upborne 
His  soul  seemed  hovering  in  his  eyes, 
Like  some  bright  spirit  newly  born 
Floating  amid  the  sunny  skies, 
Sprang  forth  from  his  rent  heart  anew. 
Yet  o'er  his  talk,  and  looks,  and  mien, 
Tempering  their  loveliness  too  keen, 
Past  woe  its  shadow  backward  threw, 
Till  like  an  exhalation,  spread 
From   flowers  half  drunk  with   evening 

dew, 
They  did  become  infectious :   sweet 
And  subtile  mists  of  sense  and  thought: 
Which  wrapt  us  soon,  when  we  might 

meet, 
Almost  from  our  own  looks  and  aught 
The    wide   world    holds.      And    so,    his 

mind 
Was  healed,  while  mine  grew  sick  with 

fear: 
For  ever  now  his  health  declined, 
Like  some  frail  bark  which  cannot  bear 
The  impulse  of  an  altered  wind, 
Though  prosperous :    and  my  heart  grew 

full 
Mid  its  new  joy  of  a  new  care : 
For  his  cheek  became,  not  pale,  but  fain 
As  rose-o'ershadowed  lilies  are; 
And  soon  his  deep  and  sunny  hair, 
In  this  alone  less  beautiful, 
Like  grass  in  tombs  grew  wild  and  rare. 


242 


ROSALIND   AND  HELEN. 


The  blood  in  his  translucent  veins 

Beat,  not  like  animal  life,  but  love 

Seemed  now  its  sullen  springs  to  move, 

When  life  had  failed,  and  all  its  pains: 

And  sudden  sleep  would  seize  him  oft 

Like  death,  so  calm,  but  that  a  tear, 

His  pointed  eye-lashes  between, 

Would  gather  in  the  light  serene 

Of  smiles,  whose  lustre  bright  and  soft 

Beneath  lay  undulating  there. 

His  breath  was  like  inconstant  flame, 

As  eagerly  it  went  and  came; 

And  I  hung  o'er  him  in  his  sleep, 

Till,  like  an  image  in  the  lake 

Which    rains    disturb,    my    tears    would 

break 
The  shadow  of  that  slumber  deep : 
Then  he  would  bid  me  not  to  weep, 
And  say  with  flattery  false,  yet  sweet, 
That  death  and  he  could  never  meet, 
If  I  would  never  part  with  him. 
And  so  we  loved,  and  did  unite 
All  that  in  us  was  yet  divided : 
For  when  he  said,  that  many  a  rite, 
By  men  to  bind  but  once  provided, 
Could  not  be  shared  by  him  and  me, 
Or  they  would  kill  him  in  their  glee, 
I  shuddered,  and  then  laughing  said  — 
"  We  will  have  rites  our  faith  to  bind, 
But    our    church    shall    be    the    starry 

night, 
Our  altar  the  grassy  earth  outspread, 
And  our  priest  the  muttering  wind." 

'Twas  sunset  as  I  spoke:   one  star 

Had  scarce  burst  forth,  when  from  afar 

The  ministers  of  misrule  sent, 

Seized  upon  Lionel,  and  bore 

His  chained  limbs  to  a  dreary  tower, 

In  the  midst  of  a  city  vast  and  wide. 

For   he,  they  said,    from  his  mind  had 

bent 
Against  their  gods  keen  blasphemy, 
For  which,  though  his  soul  must  roasted 

be 
In  hell's  red  lakes  immortally, 
Yet  even  on  earth  must  he  abide 
The  vengeance  of  their  slaves:    a  trial, 
I  think,  men  call  it.      What  avail 
Are  prayers  and  tears,  which  chase  denial 
From  the  fierce  savage,  nurst  in  hate? 
What   the   knit   soul   that   pleading   and 

pale 


Makes  wan  the  quivering  cheek,  which 

late 
It  painted  with  its  own  delight? 
We  were  divided.     As  I  could, 
I  stilled  the  tingling  of  my  blood, 
And  followed  him  in  their  despite, 
As  a  widow  follows,  pale  and  wild, 
The   murderers    and   corse   of    her  only 

child; 
|  And  when  we  came  to  the  prison  door 
And  I  prayed  to  share  his  dungeon  floor 
With    prayers    which   rarely   have    been 

spurned, 
And  when  men  drove  me  forth  and  I 
Stared  with  blank  frenzy  on  the  sky, 
A  farewell  look  of  love" he  turned, 
Half  calming  me;    then  gazed  awhile, 
As  if  thro'  that  black  and  massy  pile, 
And  thro'  the  crowd  around  him  there, 
And  thro'  the  dense  and  murky  air, 
And  the  thronged  streets,  he  did  espy 
What  poets  know  and  prophesy; 
And   said,   with  voice   that    made   them 

shiver 
And  clung  like  music  in  my  brain, 
And  which  the  mute  walls  spoke  again 
Prolonging  it  with  deepened  strain : 
"  Fear    not    the   tyrants   shall   rule    for- 
ever, 
Or  the  priests  of  the  bloody  faith; 
They  stand  on  the  brink  of  that  mighty 

river, 
Whose    waves    they    have    tainted    with 

death : 
It  is  fed  from  the  depths  of  a  thousand 

dells, 
Around  them  it   foams,  and   rages,  and 

swells, 
And   their   swords   and   their  sceptres  I 

floating  see, 
Like  wrecks  in  the  surge  of  eternity." 

I  dwelt  beside  the  prison  gate, 

And  the  strange  crowd  that  out  and  in 

Past,    some,    no   doubt,    with   mine  own 

fate, 
Might  have  fretted  me  with  its  ceaseless 

din, 
But  the  fever  of  care  was  louder  within. 
Soon,  but  too  late,  in  penitence 
Or  fear,  his  foes  releast  him  thence: 
I  saw  his  thin  and  languid  form, 
As  leaning  on  the  jailer's  arm, 


ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


243 


Whose  hardened    eyes   grew  moist    the 

while, 
To  meet  his  mute  and  faded  smile, 
And  hear  his  words  of  kind  farewell, 
He  tottered  forth  from  his  damp  cell. 
Many  had  never  wept  before, 
From    whom  fast  tears    then  gusht  and 

fell: 
Many  will  relent  no  more, 
Who  sobbed  like  infants  then :   aye,  all 
Who  thronged  the  prison's  stony  hall, 
The  rulers  or  the  slaves  of  law, 
Felt  with  a  new  surprise  and  awe 
That  they  were  human,  till  strong  shame 
Made  them  again  become  the  same. 
The  prison  blood-hounds,  huge  and  grim, 
From  human  looks  the  infection  caught, 
And    fondly    croucht     and     fawned    on 

him; 
And  men  have  heard  the  prisoners  say, 
Who  in  their  rotting  dungeons  lay, 
That    from    that    hour,    throughout    one 

day, 
The  fierce  despair  and  hate  which  kept 
Their  trampled  bosoms  almost  slept, 
When,    like    twin    vultures,    they    hung 

feeding 
On  each  heart's  wound,  wide  torn  and 

bleeding, 
Because  their  jailer's  rule,  they  thought, 
Grew  merciful,  like  a  parent's  sway. 

I  know  not  how,  but  we  were  free: 

And  Lionel  sate  alone  with  me, 

As  the  carriage  drove  thro'  the   streets 

apace; 
And  we  lookt  upon  each  other's  face; 
And  the  blood  in  our  fingers  intertwined 
Ran  like  the  thoughts  of  a  single  mind, 
As  the  swift  emotions  went  and  came 
Thro'  the  veins  of  each  united  frame. 
So  thro'  the  long,  long  streets  we  past 
Of  the  million-peopled  City  vast; 
Which  is  that  desert,  where  each  one 
Seeks  his  mate  yet  is  alone, 
Beloved    and    sought    and    mourned    of 

none; 
Until  the  clear  blue  sky  was  seen, 
And    the    grassy   meadows    bright    and 

green, 
And  then  I  sunk  in  his  embrace, 
Enclosing  there  a  mighty  space 
Of  love :   and  so  we  travelled  on 


By  woods,  and  fields  of  yellow  flowers, 

And  towns,  and  villages,  and  towers, 

Day  after  day  of  happy  hours. 

It  was  the  azure  time  of  June, 

When  the  skies  are  deep  in  the  stainless 

noon, 
And  the  warm  and  fitful  breezes  shake 
The  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  hedge-row 

brier, 
And  there  were  odors  then  to  make 
The  very  breath  we  did  respire 
A  liquid  element,  whereon 
Our  spirits,  like  delighted  things 
That  walk  the  air  on  subtle  wings, 
Floated  and  mingled  far  away, 
Mid  the  warm  winds  of  the  sunny  day. 
And  when  the  evening  star  came  forth 
Above  the  curve  of  the  new  bent  moon, 
And    light  and    sound    ebbed    from   the 

earth, 
Like  the  tide  of  the  full  and  weary  sea 
To  the  depths  of  its  tranquillity, 
Our  natures  to  its  own  repose 
Did  the  earth's  breathless  sleep  attune: 
Like  flowers,  which  on  each  other  close 
Their    languid    leaves    when    daylight's 

gone, 
We  lay,  till  new  emotions  came, 
Which    seemed    to    make    each    mortal 

frame 
One  soul  of  interwoven  flame, 
A  life  in  life,  a  second  birth 
In  worlds  diviner  far  than  earth, 
Which,  like  two  strains  of  harmony 
That  mingle  in  the  silent  sky 
I   Then  slowly  disunite,  past  by 
j   And  left  the  tenderness  of  tears, 

A  soft  oblivion  of  all  fears, 
I   A  sweet  sleep :   so  we  travelled  on 
1  Till  we  came  to  the  home  of  Lionel, 
j   Among  the  mountains  wild  and  lone, 
j   Beside  the  hoary  western  sea, 
j   Which    near  the  verge   of    the  echoing 

shore 
i  The  massy  forest  shadowed  o'er. 

The    ancient    steward,     with    hair     all 

hoar, 
As  we  alighted,  wept  to  see 
His  master  changed  so  fearfully; 
And  the  old  man's  sobs  did  waken  me 
From  my  dream  of    unremaining   glad- 
ness; 


244 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


The    truth    flasht   o'er    me    like    quick 

madness 
When  I  lookt,  and  saw  that  there  was 

death 
On  Lionel :   yet  day  by  day 
He  lived,  till  fear  grew  hope  and  faith, 
And  in  my  soul  I  dared  to  say, 
Nothing  so  bright  can  pass  away: 
Death  is  dark,  and  foul,  and  dull, 
But  he  is  —  O  how  beautiful ! 
Yet  day  by  day  he  grew  more  weak, 
And   his   sweet  voice,   when   he    might 

speak, 
Which    ne'er   was   loud,    became    more 

low; 
And  the  light  which  flasht  through  his 

waxen  cheek 
Grew  faint,  as  the  rose-like  hues  which 

flow 
From  sunset  o'er  the  Alpine  snow : 
And  death  seemed  not  like  death  in  him, 
For  the  spirit  of  life  o'er  every  limb 
Lingered,  a  mist  of  sense  and  thought. 
When    the    summer    wind    faint    odors 

brought 
From  mountain  flowers,  even  as  it  past 
His  cheek  would   change,  as  the  noon- 
day sea 
Which  the  dying  breeze  sweeps  fitfully. 
If  but  a  cloud  the  sky  o'ercast, 
You  might  see  his  color  come  and  go, 
And  the  softest  strain  of  music  made 
Sweet  smiles,  yet  sad,  arise  and  fade 
Amid  the  dew  of  his  tender  eyes; 
And  the  breath,  with  intermitting  flow, 
Made  his  pale  lips  quiver  and  part. 
You    might    hear    the    beatings    of    his 

heart, 
Quick,    but    not    strong;    and    with   my 

tresses 
When  oft  he  playfully  would  bind 
In  the  bowers  of  mossy  lonelinesses 
His  neck,  and  win  me  so  to  mingle 
In  the  sweet  depth  of  woven  caresses, 
And  our  faint  limbs  were  intertwined, 
Alas !   the  unquiet  life  did  tingle 
From    mine    own    heart    through    every 

vein, 
Like  a  captive  in  dreams  of  liberty, 
Who  beats  the  walls  of  his  stony  cell. 
But  his,  it  seemed  already  free, 
Like  the  shadow  of  fire  surrounding  me  ! 
On  my  faint  eyes  and  limbs  did  dwell 


That  spirit  as  it  past,  till  soon, 

As  a  frail  cloud  wandering  o'er  the  moon, 

Beneath  its  light  invisible, 

Is    seen    when   it    folds    its   gray  wings 

again 
To  alight  on  midnight's  dusky  plain, 
I  lived  and  saw,  and  the  gathering  soul 
Past    from    beneath     that    strong    con 

trol, 
And  I  fell  on  a  life    which  was  sick  with 

fear 
Of  all  the  woe  that  now  I  bear. 

Amid  a  bloomless  myrtle  wood, 
On  a  green  and  sea-girt  promontory, 
Not    far    from    where    we    dwelt,    there 

stood 
In  record  of  a  sweet  sad  story, 
An  altar  and  a  temple  bright 
Circled  by  steps,  and  o'er  the  gate 
Was  sculptured,  "To  Fidelity;" 
And  in  the  shrine  an  image  sate, 
All  veiled:    but  there  was  seen  the  light 
Of  smiles,  which  faintly  could  express 
A  mingled  pain  and  tenderness 
Thro'  that  ethereal  drapery, 
The  left  hand  held  the  head,  the  right — ■ 
Beyond  the  veil,  beneath  the  skin, 
You    might    see    the    nerves    quivering 

within  — 
Was  forcing  the  point  of  a  barbed  dart 
Into  its  side-convulsing  heart. 
An  unskilled  hand,  yet  one  informed 
With  genius,  had  the  marble  warmed 
With  that  pathetic  life.     This  tale 
It  told:   A  dog  had  from  the  sea, 
When  the  tide  was  raging  fearfully, 
Dragged  Lionel's  mother,  weak  and  pales 
Then  died  beside  her  on  the  sand, 
And  she  that  temple  thence  had  planned; 
But  it  was  Lionel's  own  hand 
Had  wrought  the  image.    Each  new  moon 
That  lady  did,  in  this  lone  fane, 
The  rites  of  a  religion  sweet, 
Whose  god  was  in  her  heart  and  brain : 
The    seasons'     loveliest     flowers     were 

strewn 
On  the  marble  floor  beneath  her  feet, 
And    she    brought    crowns    of    sea-buds 

white, 
Whose  odor  is  so  sweet  and  faint, 
And  weeds,  like  branching  chrysolite, 
Woven  in  devices  fine  and  quaint, 


ROSALIND  AND   HELEN. 


245 


And  tears  from  her  brown  eyes  did  stain 

The  altar :   need  but  look  upon 

That  dying  statue,  fair  and  wan, 

If  tears  should  cease,  to  weep  again: 

And  rare  Arabian  odors  came, 

Thro'      the     myrtle      copses      steaming 

thence 
From  the  hissing  frankincense, 
Whose  smoke,  wool-white  as  ocean  foam, 
Hung  in  dense  flocks  beneath  the  dome, 
That  ivory  dome,  whose  azure  night 
With   golden    stars,    like    heaven,    was 

bright 
O'er  the  split  cedar's  pointed  flame; 
And  the  lady's  harp  would  kindle  there 
The  melody  of  an  old  air, 
Softer  than  sleep;   the  villagers 
Mixt  their  religion  up  with  hers, 
And  as  they  listened  round,  shed  tears. 

One  eve  he  led  me  to  this  fane : 

Daylight  on  its  last  purple  cloud 

Was  lingering  gray,  and  soon  her  strain 

The  nightingale  began;   now  loud, 

Climbing  in  circles  the  windless  sky, 

Now  dying  music;    suddenly 

'Tis  scattered  in  a  thousand  notes, 

And  now  to  the  hushed  ear  it  floats 

Like  field-smells  known  in  infancy, 

Then  failing,  soothes  the  air  again. 

We  sate  within  that  temple  lone, 

Pavilioned  round  with  Parian  stone : 

His  mother's  harp  stood  near,  and  oft 

I  had  awakened  music  soft 

Amid  its  wires :  the  nightingale 

Was  pausing  in  her  heaven-taught  tale : 

"Now  drain  the  cup,"  said  Lionel, 

"Which  the  poet-bird  has  crowned  so  well 

With  the  wine  of  her  bright  and  liquid 

song ! 
Heardst  thou  not,  sweet  words  among 
That  heaven-resounding  minstrelsy? 
Heardst  thou  not,  that  those  who  die 
Awake  in  a  world  of  ecstasy? 
That  love,  when  limbs  are  interwoven, 
And    sleep,    when    the    night    of    life  is 

cloven, 
And  thought,  to  the  world's  dim  bound- 
aries clinging, 
And  music,  when  one  beloved  is  singing, 
Is  death?     Let  us  drain  right  joyously 
The  cup  which  the  sweet  bird  fills  for 
me." 


He  paused,  and  to  my  lips  he  bent 
His  own:   like  spirit  his  words  went 
Through  all  my  limbs  with  the  speed  of 

fire; 
And   his    keen  eyes,  glittering  through 

mine, 
Filled  me  with  the  flame  divine, 
Which  in  their  orbs  was  burning  far, 
Like  the  light  of  an  unmeasured  star, 
In  the  sky  of  midnight  dark  and  deep : 
Yes,  't  was  his  soul  that  did  inspire 
Sounds,    which    my    skill    could    ne'er 

awaken; 
■  And  first,  I  felt  my  fingers  sweep 
The  harp,  and  a  long  quivering  cry 
Burst  from  my  lips  in  symphony : 
The  dusk  and  solid  air  was  shaken, 
As  swift  and  swifter  the  notes  came 
From    my    touch,    that    wandered    like 

quick  flame, 
And  from  my  bosom,  laboring 
With  some  unutterable  thing: 
The    awful    sound    of    my    own    voice 

made 
My  faint  lips  tremble,  in  some  mood 
Of  wordless  thought  Lionel  stood 
So  pale,  that  even  beside  his  cheek 
The  snowy  column  from  its  shade 
Caught  whiteness:  yet  his  countenance 
Raised  upward,  burned  with  radiance 
Of  spirit-piercing  joy,  whose  light, 
Like    the    moon    struggling     thro'     the 

night 
Of  whirlwind-rifted  clouds,  did  break 
With  beams  that  might  not  be  confined. 
I  paused,  but  soon  his  gestures  kindled 
New  power,  as  by  the  moving  wind 
The  waves  are  lifted,  and  my  song 
To    low    soft    notes    now    changed    and 

dwindled, 
And  from  the  twinkling  wires  among, 
My  languid  fingers  drew  and  flung 
Circles  of  life-dissolving  sound, 
Yet  faint :   in  aery  rings  they  bound 
My  Lionel,  who,  as  every  strain 
Grew  fainter  but  more  sweet,  his  mien 
Sunk  with  the  sound  relaxedly; 
And  slowly  now  he  turned  to  me, 
As  slowly  faded  from  his  face 
That  awful  joy:   with  look  serene 
He  was  soon  drawn  to  my  embrace, 
And  my  wild  song  then  died  away 
In  murmurs :   words  I  dare  not  say, 


246 


.  ROSALIND   AND   HELEN. 


We  mixt,  and  on  his  lips  mine  fed 
Till  they  methought  felt  still  and  cold: 
"  What  is  it  with  thee,  love?  "  I  said: 
No  word,  no  look,  no  motion!  yes, 
There  was  a  change,  but  spare  to  guess, 
Nor  let  that  moment's  hope  be  told. 
I  lookt,  — and  knew  that  he  was  dead, 
And  fell,  as  the  eagle  on  the  plain 
Falls  when  life  deserts  her  brain, 
And  the  mortal  lightning  is  veiled  again. 

O  that  I  were  now  dead  !  but  such 
(Did  they  not,  love,  demand  too  much, 
Those  dying  murmurs?)  he  forbade. 

0  that  I  once  again  were  mad  ! 
And  yet,  dear  Rosalind,  not  so, 
For  I  would  live  to  share  thy  woe. 
Sweet  boy,  did  I  forget  thee  too? 
Alas,  we  know  not  what  we  do 
When  we  speak  words. 

No  memory  more 
Is  in  my  mind  of  that  seashore. 
Madness  came  on  me,  and  a  troop 
Of  misty  shapes  did  seem  to  sit 
Beside  me,  on  a  vessel's  poop, 
And  the  clear  north  wind  was  driving  it. 
Then  I  heard  strange  tongues,  and   saw 

strange  flowers, 
And  the  stars  methought  grew  unlike  ours, 
And  the  azure  sky  and  the  stormless  sea 
Made  me  believe  that  I  had  died, 
And  waked  in  a  world,  which  was  to  me 
Drear  hell,  though  heaven  to  all  beside: 
Then  a  dead  sleep  fell  on  my  mind, 
Whilst  animal  life  many  long  years 
Had  rescue  from  a  chasm  of  tears; 
And  when  I  woke,  I  wept  to  find 
That  the  same  lady,  bright  and  wise, 
With  silver  locks  and  quick  brown  eyes, 
The  mother  of  my  Lionel, 
Had  tended  me  in  my  distress, 
And  died  some  months  before.     Nor  less 
Wonder,  but  far  more  peace  and  joy 
Brought  in  that  hour  my  lovely  boy; 
For  through  that  trance  my  soul  had  well 
The  impress  of  thy  being  kept; 
And  if  I  waked,  or  if  I  slept, 
No  doubt,  though  memory  faithless  be, 
Thy  image  ever  dwelt  on  me; 
And  thus,  O  Lionel,  like  thee 
Is    our    sweet    child.      'T  is     sure     most 

strange 

1  knew  not  of  so  great  a  change, 


As  that  which  gave  him  birth,  who  now 
Is  all  the  solace  of  my  woe. 

That  Lionel  great  wealth  had  left 
By  will  to  me,  and  that  of  all 
The  ready  lies  of  law  bereft 
My  child  and  me,  might  well  befal. 
But  let  me  think  not  of  the  scorn, 
Which  from  the  meanest  I  have  borne, 
When,  for  my  child's  beloved  sake, 
I  mixt  with  slaves,  to  vindicate 
The  very  laws  themselves  do  make : 
Let  me  not  say  scorn  is  my  fate, 
Lest  I  be  proud,  suffering  the  same 
With  those  who  live  in  deathless  fame. 

She  ceased.  —  "  Lo,  where  red  morning 
thro'  the  wood 

Is  burning  o'er  the  dew;  "  said  Rosalind. 

And    with    these    words   they  rose,    and 
towards  the  flood 

Of  the  blue  lake,  beneath  the  leaves  now 
wind 

With  equal  steps  and  fingers  interwined: 

Thence  to  a  lonely  dwelling,  where  the 
shore 

Is   shadowed   with  steep  rocks,  and  cy- 
presses 

Cleave  with  their  dark  green  cones  the 
silent  skies, 

And  with  their  shadows  the  clear  depths 
below, 

And  where  a  little  terrace  from  its  bowers, 

Of    blooming    myrtle    and    faint  lemon- 
flowers, 

Scatters    its    sense-dissolving    fragrance 
o'er 

The  liquid  marble  of  the  windless  lake; 

And  where  the  aged  forest's  limbs  look 
hoar, 

Under  the  leaves  which  their  green  gar- 
ments make, 

They  come :  't  is  Helen'shome,  and  clean 
and  white, 

Like  one  which  tyrants  spare  on  our  own 
land 

In    some    such    solitude,    its    casements 
bright 

Shone  through  their  vine-leaves  in   the 
morning  sun, 

And  even  within  'twas  scarce  like  Italy. 

And  when  she   saw  how  all  things  there 
were  planned, 


NOTE    TO   ROSALIND   AND   HELEN 


247 


As  in  an  English  home,  dim  memory 
Disturbed  poor  Rosalind :   she  stood  as 

one 
Whose  mind  is  where  his  body  cannot  be, 
Till   Helen  led  her  where  her  child  yet 

slept, 
And    said,    "Observe,    that    brow    was 

Lionel's, 
Those  lips  were  his,  and  so  he  ever  kept 
One   arm  in  sleep,   pillowing    his   head 

with  it. 
You  cannot  see  his  eyes,  they  are  two 

wells 
Of  liquid  love  :  let  us  not  wake  him  yet." 
But   Rosalind  could  bear  no  more,  and 

wept 
A  shower   of   burning  tears,   which  fell 

upon 
His  face,  and  so  his  opening  lashes  shone 
With  tears  unlike  his  own,  as  he  did  leap 
In   sudden   wonder    from   his    innocent 

sleep. 

So  Rosalind  and  Helen  lived  together 
Thenceforth,    changed    in    all    else,    yet 

friends  again, 
Such  as  they  were,  when  o'er  the  moun- 
tain heather 
They  wandered  in  their  youth,  through 

sun  and  rain. 
And  after  many  years,  for  human  things 
Change    even    like    the    ocean    and    the 

wind, 
Her  daughter  was  restored  to  Rosalind, 
And  in  their  circle  thence  some  visitings 
Of  joy  mid  their  new  calm  would  inter- 
vene: 
A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene, 
And  motions  which  o'er  things   indiffer- 
ent shed 
The  grace  and  gentleness  from  whence 

they  came. 
And   Helen's   boy   grew   with   her,    and 

they  fed 
From  the  same  flowers  of  thought,  until 

each  mind 
Like  springs  which  mingle  in  one  flood 

became, 
And  in  their  union  soon  their  parents  saw 
The  shadow  of  the  peace  denied  to  them. 
And  Rosalind,  for  when  the  living  stem 
Is   cankered  in  its  heart,  the  tree  must 
fall, 


Died  ere  her  time;    and  with  deep  grief 

and  awe 
The  pale  survivors  followed  her  remains 
Beyond  the  region  of  dissolving  rains, 
Up  the  cold  mountain  she  was  wont  to 

call 
Her  tomb;   and  on  Chiavenna's  precipice 
They  raised  a  pyramid  of  lasting  ice, 
Whose    polisht   sides,    ere   day  had    yet 

begun, 
Caught  the  first  glow  of  the  unrisen  sun, 
The   last,  when  it   had  sunk;    and  thro' 

the  night 
The  charioteers  of  Arctos  wheeled  round 
Its  glittering  point,  as  seen  from  Helen's 

home, 
Whose  sad  inhabitants  each  year  would 

come, 
With  willing  steps  climbing  that  rugged 

height, 
And  hang  long  locks  of  hair,  and  gar- 
lands bound 
WTith    amaranth  flowers,   which,   in    the 

clime's  despite, 
Filled   the   frore  air  with  unaccustomed 

light: 
Such  flowers,  as  in  the  wintry  memory 

bloom 
Of  one   friend  left,  adorned  that  frozen 

tomb. 

Helen,  whose  spirit  was  of  softer  mould, 
Whose   sufferings    too   were    less,   death 

slowlier  led 
Into  the  peace  of  his  dominion  cold : 
She  died  among  her  kindred,  being  old. 
And  know,  that  if  love  die  not  in  the  dead 
As  in  the  living,  none  of  mortal  kind 
Are  blest,  as  now  Helen  and  Rosalind. 


NOTE   BY   MRS.  SHELLEY. 

Rosalind  and  Helen  was  begun  at  Mar- 
low,  and  thrown  aside  —  till  I  found  it; 
and,  at  my  request,  it  was  completed. 
Shelley  had  no  care  for  any  of  his  poems 
that  did  not  emanate  from  the  depths  of 
his  mind  and  develop  some  high  or  ab- 
struse truth.  When  he  does  touch  on 
human  life  and  the  human  heart,  no  pic- 
tures can  be  more  faithful,  more  delicate, 
more  subtle,  or  more  pathetic.     He  never 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


mentioned  Love  but  he  shed  a  grace  bor- 
rowed from  his  own  nature,  that  scarcely 
any  other  poet  has  bestowed  on  that  pas- 
sion. When  he  spoke  of  it  as  the  law  of 
life,  which  inasmuch  as  we  rebel  against 
we  err  and  injure  ourselves  and  others, 
he  promulgated  that  which  he  considered 
an  irrefragable  truth.  In  his  eyes  it  was 
the  essence  of  our  being,  and  all  woe  and 
pain  arose  from  the  war  made  against  it 
by  selfishness,  or  insensibility,  or  mis- 
take. By  reverting  in  his  mind  to  this 
first  principle,  he  discovered  the  source 
of  many  emotions,  and  could  disclose  the 
secret  of  all  hearts;  and  his  delineations 
of  passion  and  emotion  touch  the  finest 
chords  of  our  nature. 

Rosalind  and  Helen  was  finished  dur- 
ing the  summer  of  1818,  while  we  were 
at  the  baths  of  Lucca. 


JULIAN   AND   MADDALO. 

A  CONVERSATION. 

PREFACE. 

The  meadows  with  fresh  streams,  the  bees  with 

thyme, 
The    goats    with   the   green    leaves   of   budding 

Spring, 
Are  saturated  not  —  nor  Love  with  tears. 

Virgil's  Gattus. 

Count  Maddalo  is  a  Venetian  noble- 
man of  ancient  family  and  of  great  for- 
tune, who,  without  mixing  much  in  the 
society  of  his  countrymen,  resides  chiefly 
at  his  magnificent  palace  in  that  city. 
He  is  a  person  of  the  most  consummate 
genius,  and  capable,  if  he  would  direct 
his  energies  to  such  an  end,  of  becoming 
the  redeemer  of  his  degraded  country. 
But  it  is  his  weakness  to  be  proud:  he 
derives,  from  a  comparison  of  his  own 
extraordinary  mind  with  the  dwarfish 
intellects  that  surround  him,  an  intense 
apprehension  of  the  nothingness  of  human 
iife.  II is  passions  and  his  powers  are 
incomparably  greater  than  those  of  other 
men;  and,  instead  of  the  latter  having 
been  employed  in  curbing  the  former, 
they    have     mutually    lent    each    other 


strength.  His  ambition  preys  upon  it- 
self, for  want  of  objects  which  it  can 
consider  worthy  of  exertion.  I  say  that 
Maddalo  is  proud,  because  I  can  find  no 
other  word  to  express  the  concentred 
and  impatient  feelings  which  consume 
him  ;  but  it  is  on  his  own  hopes  and 
affections  only  that  he  seems  to  trample, 
for  in  social  life  no  human  being  can  be 
more  gentle,  patient,  and  unassuming 
than  Maddalo.  He  is  cheerful,  frank, 
and  witty.  His  more  serious  conversa- 
tion is  a  sort  of  intoxication;  men  are 
held  by  it  as  by  a  spell.  He  has  trav- 
elled much ;  and  there  is  an  inexpressible 
charm  in  his  relation  of  his  adventures 
in  different  countries. 

Julian  is  an  Englishman  of  good  family, 
passionately  attached  to  those  philosophi- 
cal notions  which  assert  the  power  of 
man  over  his  own  mind,  and  the  immense 
improvements  of  which,  by  the  extinc- 
tion of  certain  moral  superstitions,  human 
society  may  be  yet  susceptible.".  Without 
concealing  the  evil  in  the  world,  he  is 
forever  speculating  how  good  may  be 
made  superior.  He  is  a  complete  infidel, 
and  a  scoffer  at  all  things  reputed  holy: 
and  Maddalo  takes  a  wicked  pleasure  in 
drawing  out  his  taunts  against  religion. 
What  Maddalo  thinks  on  these  matters 
is  not  exactly  known.  Julian,  in  spite  of 
his  heterodox  opinions,  is  conjectured  by 
his  friends  to  possess  some  good  qualities. 
How  far  this  is  possible  the  pious  reader 
will  determine.     Julian  is  rather  serious. 

Of  the  Maniac  I  can  give  no  informa- 
tion. He  seems,  by  his  own  account,  to 
have  been  disappointed  in  love.  He  was 
evidently  a  very  cultivated  and  amiable 
person  when  in  his  right  senses.  His 
story,  told  at  length,  might  be  like  many 
other  stories  of  the  same  kind :  the  un- 
connected exclamations  of  his  agony  will 
perhaps  be  found  a  sufficient  comment 
for  the  text  of  every  heart. 

I  RODE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 
Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the 

flow 
Of  Adria  towards  Venice.    A  bare  strand 
Of   hillocks,    heaped    from    ever-shifting 

sand. 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


249 


Matted    with    thistles    and    amphibious 

weeds, 
Such   as  from  earth's  embrace  the  salt 

ooze  breeds, 
Is  this;    an  uninhabited  sea-side, 
Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  his  nets  are 

dried, 
Abandons;    and  no  other  object  breaks 
The  waste  but  one  dwarf  tree  and  some 

few  stakes 
Broken    and    unrepaired,   and    the    tide 

makes 
A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon, 
Where  't  was  our  wont  to  rfde  while  day 

went  down. 
This  ride   was  my   delight.      I    love  all 

waste 
And  solitary  places;    where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be: 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this 

shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows;    and  yet 

more 
Than  all,   with  a  remembered    friend   I 

love 
To  ride  as  then  I  rode;  — for  the  winds 

drove 
The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 
Into  our   faces;    the   blue  heavens  were 

bare, 
Stript  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening 

north; 
And,  from  the  waves,  sound  like  delight 

broke  forth 
Harmonizing  with  solitude,  and  sent 
Into  our  hearts  aerial  merriment. 
So,  as  we  rode,  we  talkt;    and   the  swift 

thought, 
Winging    itself    with    laughter,    lingered 

not, 
But  flew  from  brain  to  brain;   such  glee 

was  ours, 
Charged  with  light  memories  of  remem- 
bered hours, 
None  slow  enough  for  sadness :    till  we 

came 
Homeward,    which     always    makes    the 

spirit  tame. 
This  day   had    been    cheerful    but   cold, 

and  now 
The    sun    was    sinking,    and    the    wind 

also. 


i   Our  talk  grew  somewhat  serious,  as  may 

be 
i  Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 
I  As  mocks  itself,  because  it  cannot  scorn 
;   The    thoughts    it    would    extinguish :  — 

*t  was  forlorn, 
i   Yet  pleasing,  such  as  once,  so  poets  tell, 
!  The  devils  held  within  the  dales  of  Hell 
J   Concerning  God,  freewill  and  destiny: 

Of  all  that  earth  has  been  or  yet  may  be, 
\   All  that  vain  men  imagine  or  believe, 
I   Or    hope    can    paint    or    suffering   may 
achieve, 
We  descanted,  and  I  (for  ever  still 
Is  it  not  wise  to  make  the  best  of  ill?) 
Argued  against  despondency,  but  pride 
Made    my    companion    take    the    darker 

side. 
The  sense  that  he  was  greater  than  his 

kind 
Had   struck,    methinks,   his   eagle   spirit 

blind 
By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light. 
Meanwhile  the  sun  paused  ere  it  should 

alight,  _ 
Over   the    horizon    of    the  mountains. — 

Oh, 
How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 
I   Of  Heaven  descends   upon   a  land    like 
thee, 
Thou  Paradise  of  exiles,  Italy  ! 
j  Thy  mountains,  seas  and  vineyards  and 

the  towers 
!   Of  cities  they  encircle  !  —  it  was  ours 
To    stand    on    thee,    beholding    it;     and 

then, 
Just    where    we    had    dismounted,    the 

Count's  men 
Were  waiting  for  us  with  the  gondola.  — 
As  those  who   pause  on  some  delightful 

way 
Tho'   bent   on   pleasant    pilgrimage,   we 

stood 
Looking  upon  the  evening,  and  the  flood 
Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore 
Paved  with  the  image  of   the  sky.     The 

hoar 
And   aery  Alps   towards   the  North  ap- 
peared 
Thro'  mist,  a  heaven-sustaining  bulwark 
reared 
j    Between  the  East  and  West;    and  half 
I  the  sky 


250 


JULIAN  AND  MADDALO. 


Was    rooft    with    clouds    of    rich    em-   ■  And   on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where 


blazonry 


hung 


Dark   purple   at   the   zenith,   which   still   \   A  bell,  which    in    the    radiance  swayed 


grew 


and  swung; 


Down  the  steep  West  into  a  wondrous  j  We  could   just  hear  its  hoarse  and  ii 


Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the 

rent 
Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  in  his 

descent 


tongue : 
The  broad  sun    sunk    behind  it,  and    it 

tolled 
In  strong  and  black  relief.  —  "  What  we 

behold 


Among  the  many-folded  hills:  they  were  j   Shall    be    the  madhouse    and    its  belfry 
Those    famous    Euganean    hills,    which 

bear 

As  seen  from  Lido  thro'  the  harbor  piles  !  Those    who    may  cross    the  water,  hear 

The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peaked  isles  —  \  that  bell 

And  then,  as  if  the  Earth  and  Sea  had      Which  calls  the  maniacs  each  one   from 


tower, 
Said  Maddalo,  "and  ever  at  this  hour 


been  his  eel 

Dissolved    into    one    lake    of    fire,   were      To  vespers." 


As  much  skill  as  need 


seen 
Those  mountains  towering  as  from  waves 

of  flame 
Around    the  vaporous   sun,   from   which 

there  came 
The    inmost  purple    spirit  of    light,  and 

made 
Their    very    peaks    transparent.       "  Ere 

it  fade," 
Said  my  companion,  "  I  will  show  you 

soon 
A  better  station."  —  So,  o'er  the  lagune 
We  glided,  and  from  that  funereal  bark 
I  leaned,   and  saw  the    city,  and   could 

mark 
How  from  their  many  isles  in  evening's 

gleam 
Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 
Like    fabrics    of    enchantment    piled    to 

Heaven. 
I  was  about  to  speak,  when  —  "We  are 

even 
Now    at    the     point     I     meant,"     said 

Maddalo, 
And  bade  the  gondolieri  cease  to  row. 
"Look,  Julian,  on  the  West,  and   listen 

well 
If     you     hear     not     a    deep     and    heavy 

bell." 
I    lookt,    and  saw  between    us  and   the 

sun 
A  building  on  an  island;    such  a  one 
As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile, 
A    windowless,     deformed     and     dreary 

pile; 


to  pray 
In    thanks    or    hope    for   their    dark    lot 

have  they 
To  their  stern  maker,"  I  replied.     "O 

ho! 
You  talk   as   in  years  past,"  said  Mad- 
dalo. 
"'Tis  strange  men    change    not.     You 

were  ever  still 
Among  Christ's  flock  a  perilous  infidel, 
A   wolf    for    the    meek    lambs  —  if    you 

can't  swim 
Beware  of  Providence."   I  lookt  on  him, 
But  the  gay  smile  had  faded  in  his  eye, 
"  And  such," — he  cried,  "  is   our  mor- 
tality, 
And  this  must  be  the  emblem  and  the  sign 
Of  what  should  be  eternal  and  divine  !  — 
And  like  that  black  and  dreary  bell,  the 

soul 
Hung  in  a  heaven-illumined  tower,  must 

toll 
Our   thoughts   and   our   desires   to   meet 

below 
Round    the    rent    heart    and    pray  —  as 

madmen  do 
For  what?  they  know  not,  till  the  night 

of  death 
As  sunset  that  strange  vision,  severeth 
Our  memory  from  itself,  and  us   from  all 
We    sought    and   yet  were   baffled."      I 

recal 
The  sense  of  what  he  said,  altho'  I  mar 
The  force  of  his  expressions.     The  broad 

star 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


251 


Of  day  meanwhile  had  sunk  behind  the 
hill, 

And  the  black  bell  became  invisible, 
And  the  red  tower  looked  gray,  and  all 

between 
The    churches,  ships    and    palaces   were 

seen 
Huddled   in    gloom;  —  into    the    purple 

sea 
The  orange  hues  of  heaven  sunk  silently. 
We  hardly  spoke,  and  soon  the  gondola 
Conveyed   me    to    my   lodgings    by    the 

way. 
The    following   morn  was  rainy,  cold 

and  dim. 
Ere  Maddalo  arose,  I  called  on  him, 
And  whilst    I  waited    with    his    child    I 

played; 
A  loveher  toy  sweet  Nature  never  made, 
A  serious,  subtle,  wild,  yet  gentle  being, 
Graceful  without  design,  and  unforesee- 

ing, 
With  eyes  —  oh  speak  not  of  her  eyes! 

—  which  seem 
Twin    mirrors    of    Italian    Heaven,    yet 

gleam 
With  such  deep  meaning,  as  we  never  see 
But  in   the  human  countenance.     With 

me 
She  was  a  special  favorite :   I  had  nurst 
Her    fine    and    feeble    limbs    when    she 

came  first 
To  this  bleak  world;  and  she  yet  seemed 

to  know 
On  second  sight  her  ancient  playfellow, 
Less  changed  than  she  was  by  six  months 

or  so; 
For  after  her  first  shyness  was  worn  out 
We  sate  there,  rolling  billiard  balls  about, 
When    the    Count   entered.     Salutations 

past; 
"  The  word  you   spoke   last   night   might 

well  have  cast 
A  darkness  on  my  spirit  —  if  man  be 
The  passive  thing  you  say,  I  should  not 

see 
Much  harm  in  the  religions  and  old  saws 
(Tho'    I    may    never    own    such    leaden 

laws) 
Which  break  a  teachless   nature   to   the 

yoke : 
Mine   is  another  faith" — thus   much   I 

spoke 


And    noting    he    replied    not,    added: 

"See 
This   lovely   child,   blithe,  innocent  and 

free, 
She  spends  a  happy  time  with  little  care 
While  we  to  such  sick  thoughts  subjected 

are 
As  came  on  you  last  night. — It   is  our 

will 
Which    thus    enchains    us    to    permitted 

ill  — 
We  might  be  otherwise  —  we   might  be 

all 
We  dream  of,  happy,  high,  majestical. 
Where  is  the  love,  beauty,  and  truth  we 

seek 
But   in   our  mind?   and  if  we  were   not 

weak 
Should    we    be    less    in    deed    than    in 

desire  ?  ' ' 
"Ay,  if   we  were    not  weak  —  and   we 

aspire 
How  vainly  to  be   strong!"  said   Mad- 
dalo: 
i   "You  talk   Utopia."      "It  remains  to 

know," 
!   I  then  rejoined,  "  and  those  who  try  may 

find 
I   How  strong  the    chains    are  which    our 

spirit  bind; 
!   Brittle  perchance  as  straw  .   .   .  We  are 

assured 
Much  may  be  conquered,  much  may  be 

endured 
Of  what  degrades  and  crushes  us.     We 

know 
That  we  have  power   over  ourselves  to 

do 
And  suffer  —  what,  we  know  not  till  we 

try; 
But   something   nobler   than   to   live  and 

die  — 
So  taught  those  kings  of  old  philosophy. 
Who     reigned,    before     Religion     made 

men  blind; 
And  those  who  suffer  with  their  suffering 

kind 
Yet    feel    their    faith,    religion."      "My 

dear  friend," 
Said  Maddalo,   "my  judgment  will  not 

bend 
To  your  opinion,  tho'  I  think  you  might 
Make  such  a  system  refutation-tight 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


As  far  as  words  go.      I  knew  one  like 

you 
Who  to  this  city  came  some  months  ago, 
With  whom  I  argued  in  this  sort,  and  he 
Is  now  gone  mad,  —  and  so  he  answered 

me,  — 
Poor  fellow  !     But  if  you  would  like  to 

g° 

We'll  visit    him,  and   his  wild  talk  will 
show 

How  vain  are  such  aspiring  theories." 

"  I  hope  to  prove  the  induction  other- 
wise, 

And    that    a    want   of  that   true  theory, 
still, 

Which    seeks    a  '  soul    of   goodness '  in 
things  ill, 

Or  in  himself  or  others,  has  thus  bowed 

His  being  —  there   are   some   by  nature 
proud, 

Who   patient    in    all    else    demand    but 
this  — 

To  love    and   be    beloved   with    gentle- 
ness; 

And  being  scorned,  what  wonder  if  they 
die 

Some  living  death?  this  is  not  destiny 

But  man's  own  wilful  ill." 

As  thus  I  spoke 

Servants  announced  the  gondola,  and  we 

Through  the   fast-falling  rain  and   high- 
wrought  sea 

Sailed  to  the  island  where  the  madhouse 
stands. 

We    disembarkt.     The    clap  of  tortured 
hands, 

Fierce  yells  and  howlings  and  lament- 
ings  keen, 

And     laughter     where     complaint     had 
merrier  been, 

Moans,   shrieks,    and    curses,   and    blas- 
pheming prayers 

Accosted     us.       We    climbed    the    oozy 
stairs 

Into  an  old  courtyard.     I  heard  on  high, 

Then,  fragments  of  most  touching  melody, 

But  looking  up  saw  not  the  singer  there.    , 

Through  the  black  bars  in  the  tempestu-   j 
ous  air 

I  saw,    like  weeds    on  a  wreckt   palace 
growing, 

Long  tangled    locks   flung  wildly   forth, 
and  flowing,  j 


Of  those  who  on  a  sudden  were  beguiled 
Into    strange    silence,    and    lookt    forth 

and  smiled 
Hearing  sweet  sounds.  — Then  I :  "  Me- 

thinks  there  were 
A  cure  of  these  with  patience  and  kind 

care, 
If  music  can  thus  move  .   .   .  But  what 

is  he 
Whom  we  seek   here?"      "Of    his  sad 

history 
I  know  but  this,"  said  Maddalo,  "  he 

came 
To  Venice  a  dejected  man,  and  fame 
Said   he   was  wealthy,    or   he   had  been 

so; 
Some  thought  the  loss  of  fortune  wrought 

him  woe; 
But  he  was  ever  talking  in  such  sort 
As  you  do  — far  more  sadly;    he  seemed 

hurt, 
Even  as  a  man  with  his  peculiar  wrong, 
To    hear    but    of    the  oppression  of  the 

strong, 
Or   those    absurd   deceits  (I  think  with 

you 
In  some  respects,  you  know)  which  carry 

through 
The  excellent  impostors  of  this  earth 
When    they   outface    detection :    he  had 

worth, 
Poor   fellow !     but    a    humorist    in    his 

way  "  — 
"Alas,    what    drove    him    mad?"      "I 

cannot  say; 
A  lady  came  with  him  from  France,  and 

when 
She  left  him  and  returned,  he  wandered 

then 
About  yon  lonely  isles  of  desert  sand 
Till   he   grew  wild  —  he   had   no  cash  or 

land 
Remaining,  —  the     police     had    brought 

him  here  — 
Some  fancy  took  him  and  he  would  not 

bear 
Removal;    so  I  fitted  up  for  him 
Those   rooms  beside  the    sea,  to    please 

his  whim, 
And  sent  him  busts  and  books  and  urns 

for  flowers 
Which   had    adorned   his  life  in  happier 

hours, 


JULIAN  AND  MADDALO. 


253 


And   instruments  of  music.  —  You  may 

guess 
A  stranger  could  do  little  more  or  less 
For  one  so  gentle  and  unfortunate : 
And    those    are  his  sweet  strains  which 

charm  the  weight 
From  madmen's  chains,  and  make  this 

Hell  appear 
A    heaven    of    sacred    silence,    husht  to 

hear."  — 
*'Nay,    this  was  kind  of  you  —  he  had 

no  claim, 
As  the  world  says."  —  "  None  — but  the 

very  same 
Which  I  on  all  mankind  were  I  as  he 
Fallen     to    such     deep    reverse;  —  his 

melody 
Is  interrupted  —  now  we  hear  the  din 
Of    madmen,    shriek    on    shriek    again 

begin; 
Let  us  now  visit  him;  after  this  strain 
He  ever  communes  with  himself  again, 
And  sees  nor  hears  not  any."     Having 

said 
These  words  we   called   the  keeper,  and 

he  led 
To  an  apartment  opening  on  the  sea. — 
There    the     poor    wretch    was     sitting 

mournfully 
Near  a  piano,  his  pale  fingers  twined 
One  with  the  other,    and   the  ooze  and 

wind 
Rusht    through  an  open  casement,    and 

did  sway 
His  hair,  and  starred  it  with  the  brackish 

spray ; 
His  head  was  leaning  on  a  music  book, 
And    he    was    muttering,    and    his   lean 

limbs  shook; 
His   lips    were    prest    against    a     folded 

leaf 
In  hue  too  beautiful  for  health,  and  grief 
Smiled    in    their     motions     as     they    lay 

apart  — 
As  one  who  wrought  from  his  own  fervid 

heart 
The  eloquence  of  passion,  soon  he  raised 
His  sad  meek  face  and  eyes  lustrous  and 

glazed 
And    spoke  —  sometimes    as    one    who 

wrote  and  thought 
His  words  might  move  some  heart  that 

heeded  not 


If  sent  to  distant  lands:  and  then  as  one 
Reproaching  deeds  never  to  be  undone 
With  wondering    self-compassion;    then 

his  speech 
Was  lost  in  grief,  and   then  his  words 

came  each 
Unmodulated,  cold,  expressionless,  — 
But    that    from    one    jarred    accent    you 

might  guess 
It  was  despair  made  them  so  uniform : 
And    all  the  while   the  loud  and  gusty 

storm 
Hist  thro'   the  window,    and   we    stood 

behind 
Stealing    his   accents   from    the    envious 

wind 
Unseen.     I  yet  remember  what  he  said 
Distinctly:    such    impression    his  words 

made. 

"Month  after  month,"  he  cried,  "to 

bear  this  load 
And  as  a   jade  urged  by  the  whip  and 

goad 
To  drag  life  on,  which  like  a  heavy  chain 
Lengthens  behind  with  many  a  link  of 

pain  !  — 
And  not  to  speak  my  grief — O  not  to 

dare 
To  give  a  human  voice  to  my  despair, 
But  live  and  move,  and,  wretched  thing ! 

smile  on 
As  if  I  never  went  aside  to  groan, 
And  wear  this  mask  of  falsehood  even  to 

those 
Who  are   most  dear  —  not   for   my  own 

repose  — 
Alas  !   no  scorn  or  pain  or  hate  could  be 
So  heavy  as  that  falsehood  is  to  me  — 
But  that  I  cannot  bear  more  altered  faces 
Than  needs  must  be,  more  changed  and 

cold  embraces, 
More  misery,   disappointment,   and  mis- 
trust 
To  own  me  for  their  father  .   .   .   Would 

the  dust 
Were  covered  in  upon  my  body  now  ! 
That   the   life    ceast    to    toil    within    my 

brow  ! 
And  then  these  thoughts  would  at    the 

least  be  fled; 
Let  us  not  fear  such  pain  can  vex  the 

dead. 


=  54 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


"  What  Power  delights  to  torture  us? 

I  know 
That  to  myself  I  do  not  wholly  owe 
What  now  I  suffer,  tho'  in  part  I  may. 
Alas  !   none  strewed  sweet  flowers  upon 

the  way 
Where,  wandering  heedlessly,  I  met  pale 

Pain, 
My    shadow,  which    will    leave    me  not 

again.  — 
If  I  have  erred,  there  was  no  joy  in  error, 
But  pain  and  insult  and  unrest  and  terror; 
I  have  not  as  some  do,  bought  penitence 
With    pleasure,    and    a   dark    yet    sweet 

offence, 
For  then,  if  love  and  tenderness  and  truth 
Had  overlived  hope's  momentary  youth, 
My  creed  should  have  redeemed  me  from 

repenting; 
But  loathed  scorn  and  outrage  unrelent- 
ing, 
Met  love  excited  by  far  other  seeming 
Until   the  end  was  gained  ...  as  one 

from  dreaming 
Of  sweetest    peace,  I  woke,  and  found 

my  state 

Such  as  it  is. 

"  O  Thou,  my  spirit's  mate 
Who,    for    thou    art   compassionate   and 

wise, 
Wouldst  pity  me  from  thy  most  gentle 

eyes 
If  this  sad  writing  thou  shouldst  ever  see — 
My  secret    groans   must  be  unheard    by 

thee, 
Thou  wouldst  weep  tears  bitter  as  blood 

to  know 
Thy  lost  friend's  incommunicable  woe. 

"  Ye  few  by  whom  my  nature  has  been 
weighed 

In  friendship,  let  me  not  that  name  de- 
grade 

By  placing  on  your  hearts  the  secret  load 

Which  crushes  mine  to  dust.  There  is 
one  road 

To  peace  and  that  is  truth,  which  follow 
ye  ! 

Love  sometimes  leads  astray  to  misery. 

Yet  think  not  tho'  subdued  —  and  I  may 
well 

Say  that  I  am  subdued  —  that  the  full 
hell 


Within   me  would   infect  the    untainted 

breast 
Of  sacred  nature  with  its  own  unrest; 
As  some  perverted  beings  think  to  find 
In  scorn  or  hate  a  medicine  for  the  mind 
Which  scorn  or  hate  hath  wounded  —  O 

how  vain  ! 
The    dagger    heals    not    but    may   rend 

again   .    .    . 
Believe  that  I  am  ever  still  the  same 
In  creed   as   in    resolve,   and   what  may 

tame 
My  heart,  must  leave  the  understanding 

free, 
Or  all  would  sink  in  this  keen  agony  ; 
Nor  dream  that  I  will  join  the  vulgar  cry; 
Or  with  my  silence  sanction  tyranny; 
Or    seek    a    moment's   shelter   from   my 

pain 
In   any  madness  which   the  world  calls 

gain, 
Ambition    or    revenge    or    thoughts    as 

stern 
As  those  which  make  me  what  I  am;    or 

turn 
To  avarice  or  misanthropy  or  lust  .   .   . 
Heap  on  me  soon  O  grave,  thy  welcome 

dust! 
Till  then   the  dungeon  may  demand  its 

prey, 
And  Poverty  and  Shame  may  meet  and 

say  — 
Halting  beside  me  on  the  public  way  — 
4  That  love-devoted  youth  is  ours  —  let's 

sit 
Beside    him  —  he    may    live    some    six 

months  yet.' 
Or  the  red  scaffold,  as  our  country  bends, 
May  ask  some  willing  victim,  or  ye  friends 
May  fall  under  some  sorrow  which   this 

heart 
Or  hand  may  share  or  vanquish  or  avert; 
I  am  prepared  —  in  truth  with  no  proud 

joy  — 
To  do  or  suffer  aught,  as  when  a  boy 
I  did  devote  to  justice  and  to  love 
My  nature,  worthless  now  !    .    .    . 

"  I  must  remove 
A  veil  from  my  pent  mind.      'Tis  torn 

aside  ! 
O,  pallid  as  Death's  dedicated  bride, 
Thou  mockery  which  art   sitting  by  my 

side, 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


55 


Am  I  not  wan  like  thee?  at  the  grave's 

call 
I  haste,  invited  to  thy  wedding-ball 
To  greet  the  ghastly  paramour,  for  whom 
Thou  hast  deserted  me   .   .   .  and  made 

the  tomb 
Thy  bridal  bed  .   .   .   But  I  beside  your 

feet 
Will  lie  and  watch  ye  from  my  winding 

sheet  — 
Thus  .   .   .  wide    awake  tho'  dead  .    .   . 

yet  stay,  O  stay  ! 
Go    not    so    soon  —  I  know  not  what  I   j 

say—  | 

Hear  but  my  reasons  ...   I  am  mad,  I   | 

fear, 
My  fancy  is  o'erwrought  .   .    .  thou  art  i 

not  here  .   .   . 
Pale   art   thou,    'tis  most  true   .   .   .  but   j 

thou  art  gone, 
Thy    work    is     finisht   ...  I    am    left   ! 

alone  !  — 


As    the    slow    shadows    of    the    pointed 


poi 


grass 


"  Nay,  was  it  I  who  wooed  thee   to 

this  breast 
Which,  like  a  serpent  thou  envenomest 
As  in  repayment  of  the  warmth  it  lent? 
Didst    thou  not  seek  me  for  thine  own 

content? 
Did    not    thy    love    awaken    mine?       I 

thought 
That  thou  wert  she  who  said  '  You  kiss 

me  not 
Ever;   I  fear  you  do  not  love  me  now' — 
In  truth  I  loved  even  to  my  overthrow 
Her,  who  would  fain  forget  these  words : 

but  they 
Cling  to  her  mind,  and  cannot  pass  away. 

"You    say    that    I    am    proud  —  that 

when  I  speak 
My  lip  is  tortured  with  the  wrongs  which 

break 
The   spirit  it  expresses  .   .    .  Never  one 
Humbled  himself  before,  as  I  have  done  ! 
Even  the  instinctive  worm  on  which  we 

tread 
Turns,  tho'   it  wound    not  —  then    with 

prostrate  head 
■Sinks  in  the  dust  and  writhes  like  me  — 

and  dies? 
No :   wears  a  living  death  of  agonies  ! 


Mark  the  eternal  periods,  his  pangs  pass 
Slow,  ever-moving,  —  making    moments 

be 
As  mine  seem  —  each  an  immortality  ! 

"That  you  had  never  seen  me  —  never 

heard 
My  voice,  and  more  than  all  had  ne'er 

endured 
The   deep  pollution  of   my  loathed  em- 
brace — 
That  your  eyes  ne'er  had  lied  love  in  my 

face  — 
That,   like  some    maniac   monk,    I   had 

torn  out 
The  nerves  of  manhood  by  their  bleeding 

root 
With   mine   own   quivering    fingers,    so 

that  ne'er 
Our  hearts  had  for  a   moment   mingled 

there 
To  disunite  in  horror  —  these  were  not 
With    thee,     like    some     supprest     and 

hideous  thought 
Which  flits  athwart  our  musings,  but  can 

find 
No    rest    within     a    pure     and     gentle 

mind  .   .   . 
Thou  sealedst    them  with    many  a  bare 

broad  word 
And  searedst  my  memory  o'er  them, — 

for  I  heard 
And    can    forget    not    .    .    .    they    were 

ministered 
One  after  one,  those  curses.     Mix  them 

UP 
Like     self-destroying     poisons     in     one 

cup, 
And  they  will  make  one  blessing  which 

thou  ne'er 
Didst  imprecate  for,  on  me,  —  death. 

"  It  were 
A  cruel  punishment  for  one  most  cruel 
If  such  can  love,  to  make  that  love  the 

fuel 
Of  the  mind's  hell;  hate,  scorn,  remorse, 

despair: 
But  me —  whose  heart  a  stranger's  tear 

might  wear 


256 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


As     water-drops     the    sandy     fountain- 
stone, 
Who    loved    and    pitied    all  things,   and 

could  moan 
For  woes  which    others    hear    not,    and 

could  see 
The  absent  with  the  glance  of  fantasy, 
And  with  the  poor  and  trampled  sit  and 

weep, 
Following   the    captive    to    his    dungeon 

deep; 
Me  —  who  am  as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do 

creep 
The  else  unfelt  oppressions  of  this  earth, 
And  was    to    thee    the    flame    upon   thy 

hearth, 
When  all  beside  was  cold  —  that  thou  on 

me 
Shouldst  rain  these  plagues  of  blistering 

agony  — 
Such  curses  are  from  lips  once  eloquent 
W7ith  love's  too  partial  praise  —  let  none 

relent 
Who    intend    deeds   too   dreadful    for    a 

name 
Henceforth,  if  an  example  for  the  same 
They  seek   ...   for  thou  on  me  lookedst 

so,  and  so  — 
And  didst  speak  thus  .   .   .  and  thus  .    .   . 

I  live  to  show 
How  much  men  bear  and  die  not ! 

"Thou  wilt  tell, 
With  the  grimace  of  hate  how  horrible 
It  was  to  meet  my  love  when  thine  grew 

less; 
Thou    wilt    admire    how    I    could    e'er 

address 
Such    features  to  love's  work   .   .    .   this 

taunt,  tho'  true, 
(For  indeed  nature  nor  in  form  nor  hue 
Bestowed  on  me  her  choicest  workman- 
ship) 
Shall  not  be  thy  defence  ...   for  since 

thy  lip 
Met    mine    first,  years    long    past,   since 

thine  eye  kindled 
With  soft  fire    under  mine,   I   have    not 

dwindled 
Nor    changed    in    mind    or    body,   or   in 

aught 
But  as  love  changes  what  it  loveth  not 
After  long  years  and  many  trials. 


"  How  vain 
Are   words  !     I  thought   never  to  speak 

again, 
Not   even   in   secret,  —  not    to    my  own 

heart  — 
But  from  my  lips  the  unwilling  accents 

start, 
And  from  my  pen  the  words  flow  as  I 

write, 
Dazzling    my    eyes    with    scalding    tears 

.   .    .  my  sight 
Is  dim  to  see  that  charactered  in  vain 
On  this  unfeeling  leaf   which  burns  the 

brain 
And  eats  into  it  .   .   .  blotting  all  things 

fair 
And    wise    and    good    which    time    had 

written  there. 

"Those   who   inflict    must    suffer,    for 

they  see 
The  work  of  their  own  hearts  and  this 

must  be 
Our    chastisement    or    recompense  —  O 

child  ! 
I  would  that  thine  were  like  to  be  more 

mild 
For  both   our   wretched   sakes  .   .   .   for 

thine  the  most 
Who  feelest    already  all  that    thou  hast 

lost 
Without    the    power    to    wish    it    thine 

again; 
And  as  slow  years  pass,  a  funereal  train 
Each  with  the  ghost  of  some  lost  hope 

or  friend 
Following  it   like  its  shadow,  wilt   thou 

bend 
No  thought  on  my  dead  memory? 

"  Alas,  love  ! 
Fear  me  not    .    .    .   against  thee  I  would 

not  move 
A  finger  in  despite.     Do  I  not  live 
That  thou  mayst  have  less  bitter  cause  to 

grieve? 
I  give   thee  tears   for  scorn  and   love  for 

hate; 
And-that  thy  lot  may  be  less  desolate 
Than    his    on    whom    thou    tramplest,    I 

refrain 
From  that   sweet  sleep  which  medicines 

all  pain. 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


257 


Then,  when  thou  speakest  of  me,  never 

say 
'  He  could  forgive  not.'    Here  I  cast  away 
All    human    passions,    all    revenge,    all 

pride; 
I  think,  speak,  act  no  ill;    I  do  but  hide 
Under   these    words,   like  embers,   every 

spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me  —  Quick 

and  dark 
The   grave   is   yawning   ...   as  its   roof 

shall  cover 
My    limbs   with    dust  and  worms    under 

and  over 
So  let  Oblivion  hide  this  grief   .   .   .   the 

air 
Closes  upon  my  accents,  as  despair 
Upon    my    heart — let    death    upon    de- 
spair !  " 

He    ceast,    and  overcome    leant  back 

awhile, 
Then  rising,  with  a  melancholy  smile 
Went  to  a  sofa,  and  lay  down,  and  slept 
A    heavy  sleep,   and    in    his    dreams    he 

wept 
And  muttered  some  familiar  name,  and 

we 
Wept  without  shame  in  his  society. 
I  think  I  never  was  imprest  so  much; 
The    man    who    were     not,    must    have 

lackt  a  touch 
Of  human  nature   .   .    .  then  we  lingered 

not, 
Altho'  our  argument  was  quite  forgot, 
But  calling  the  attendants,  went  to  dine 
At   Maddalo:s  ;    yet    neither    cheer    nor 

wine 
Could  give    us    spirits,   for  we    talkt    of 

him 
And    nothing    else,    till    daylight    made 

stars  dim; 
And   we    agreed   his   was  some  dreadful 

ill 
Wrought  on  him  boldly,  yet  unspeakable, 
By  a  dear   friend;    some   deadly  change 

in  love 
Of  one  vowed  deeply  which  he  dreamed 

not  of: 
For  whose  sake  he,  it    seemed,  had  fixt 

a  blot 
Of  falsehood  on  his  mind  which  flourisht 

not 


I   But  in  the  light  of  all-beholding  truth, 
And    having  stampt   this  canker  on  his 

youth 
She  had  abandoned  him  —  and  how  much 

more 
Might  be  his  woe,  we  guessed  not  —  he 

had  store 
Of  friends  and  fortune  once,  as  we  could 

guess 
From  his  nice  habits  and  his  gentleness; 
These    were    now    lost    ...   it    were    a 

grief  indeed 
If  he  had  changed  one  unsustaining  reed 
I  For  all  that  such  a  man  might  else  adorn. 
I  The  colors  of  his  mind  seemed  yet  un- 
worn ; 
j  For  the  wild  language  of  his  grief  was 
I  high, 

I   Such  as  in  measure  were  called  poetry, 
j  And  I  remember  one  remark  which  then 
j   Maddalo     made.       He     said:      "  Most 

wretched  men 
j   Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong, 
j  They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach 
in  song." 

If  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man 
I,  from  this  moment,  should  have  formed 
some  plan 
1  Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice,  —  for  to  me 

It  was  delight  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea; 
I  And  then,  the  town  is  silent  —  one  may 
write 
Or  read  in  gondolas  by  day  or  night, 
,   Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight, 
1   Unseen,  uninterrupted;  books  are  there, 
:   Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues 
fair 
Which  were  twin-born  with  poetrv,  and 
all 
I   We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 
j    Regrets  for  the  green  country.      I  might 
sit 
In  Maddalo's  great  palace,  and  his  wit 
:   And  subtle  talk  would   cheer  the  winter 

night 
;   And   make    me   know    myself,    and    the 
firelight 
Would  flash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day 
Might  dawn  and  make  me  wonder  at  my 

stay: 
But  I  had  friends  in  London  too  :  the  chief 
Attraction  here,  was  that  I  sought  relief 


^ 


JULIAN  AND   MADDALO. 


From  the   deep  tenderness  that  maniac 

wrought 
Within    me  —  'twas    perhaps    an     idle 

thought  — 
But  I  imagined  that  if  day  by  day 
I    watcht    him,    and    but    seldom    went 

away, 
And  studied  all  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
With  zeal,  as  men  study  some  stubborn 

art 
For     their     own     good,    and     could    by 

patience  find 
An  entrance  to  the  caverns  of  his  mind, 
I    might    reclaim     him     from    this    dark 

estate : 
In     friendships    I    had    been    most    for- 
tunate — - 
Yet  never  saw  I  one  whom  I  would  call 
More  willingly  my  friend;  and   this  was 

all. 
Accomplisht   not;  such   dreams  of  base- 
less good 
Oft  come  and  go  in  crowds  or  solitude 
And  leave   no  trace  —  but  what   I    now 

designed 
Made   for  long  years  impression   on  my 

mind. 
The    following    morning    urged    by   my 

affairs 
I  left  bright  Venice. 

After  many  years 
And  many  changes  I  returned;  the  name 
Of     Venice,    and     its     aspect,    was     the 

same; 
But  Maddalo  was  travelling  far  away 
Among  the  mountains  of   Armenia. 
His  dog  was  dead.     His  child  had  now 

become 
A  woman;    such  as  it  has  been  my  doom 
To  meet  with  few,  a  wonder  of  this  earth 
Where    there    is    little    of     transcendent 

worth, 
Like     one     of     Shakespeare's     women. 

Kindly  she, 
And  with  a  manner  beyond  courtesy, 
Received  her  father's   friend;    and  when 

I  askt 
Of    the    lorn    maniac,   she    her    memory 

taskt 
And  told,  as  she  had  heard,  the  mournful 

tale. 
"That   the   poor  sufferer's  health  began 

to  fail 


Two   years   from   my  departure,  but  that 

then 
The  lady  who  had  left  him,  came  again. 
Her  mien  had  been  imperious,  but  she 

now 
Lookt     meek  —  perhaps     remorse     had 

brought  her  low. 
Her  coming  made  him  better,  and  they 

stayed 
Together  at  my  father's — for  I  played 
As  I  remember  with  the  lady's  shawl  — 
I  might  be  six  years  old  —  but  after  all 
She   left  him."    ..."  Why,  her  heart 

must  have  been  tough : 
How  did  it  end?  "     "And  was  not  this 

enough? 
They  met  —  they  parted"  —  "  Child,  is 

there  no  more?  " 
"  Something  within  that  interval  which 

bore 
The  stamp  of  ivJiy  they  parted,  how  they 

met : 
Yet  if  thine  aged  eyes  disdain  to  wet 
Those     wrinkled     cheeks     with    youth's 

remembered  tears, 
Ask  me  no  more,  but  let  the  silent  years 
Be  closed  and  cered  over  their  memory 
As  yon  mute  marble  where  their  corpses 

lie." 
I    urged    and  questioned    still,  she  told 

me  how 
All  happened  —  but  the  cold  world  shall 

not  know. 

CANCELLED    FRAGMENTS   OF 
JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 

"  What     think     you     the     dead     are  ?  " 

"  Why,  dust  and  clay, 
What     should     they    be?"      "  'T  is    the 

last  hour  of   day. 
Look  on  the  west,  how  beautiful  it  is 
Vaulted  with  radiant  vapors  !     The  deep 

bliss 
Of  that  unutterable  light  has  made 
The  edges  of  that  cloud  fade 

Into  a  hue,  like  some  harmonious  thought, 
Wasting    itself    on     that    which     it    had 

wrought, 
Till  it  dies  and 

between 
The    light     hues    of     the     tender,    pure, 

serene. 


PR  OME  7  'HE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


'59 


And  infinite  tranquillity  of  heaven. 
Ay,  beautiful !  but  when  not.   .   .   ." 

"Perhaps   the    only   comfort   which    re- 
mains 
Is  the  unheeded  clanking  of  my  chains, 
The  which  I  make,  and  call  it  melody." 


NOTE   BY   MRS.    SHELLEY. 

From  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  in  1818, 
Shelley  visited  Venice;  and,  circum- 
stances rendering  it  eligible  that  we 
should  remain  a  few  weeks  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  that  city,  he  accepted  the 
offer  of  Lord  Byron,  who  lent  him  the 
use  of  a  villa  he  rented  near  Este;  and 
he  sent  for  his  family  from  Lucca  to 
join  him. 

I  Capuccini  was  a  villa  built  on  the 
site  of  a  Capuchin  convent,  demolished 
when  the  French  suppressed  religious 
houses;  it  was  situated  on  the  very  over- 
hanging brow  of  a  low  hill  at  the  foot  of 
a  range  of  higher  ones.  The  house  was 
cheerful  and  pleasant;  a  vine-trellised 
walk,  a  pergola,  as  it  is  called  in  Italian, 
led  from  the  hall-door  to  a  summer-house 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  which  Shelley 
made  his  study,  and  in  which  he  began 
the  Prometheus;  and  here  also,  as  he 
mentions  in  a  letter,  he  wrote  Julian 
and  Maddalo.  A  slight  ravine,  with  a 
road  in  its  depth,  divided  the  garden 
from  the  hill,  on  which  stood  the  ruins 
of  the  ancient  castle  of  Este,  whose  dark 
massive  wall  gave  forth  an  echo,  and 
from  whose  ruined  crevices  owls  and 
bats  flitted  forth  at  night,  as  the  crescent 
moon  sunk  behind  the  black  and  heavy 
battlements.  We  looked  from  the  gar- 
den over  the  wide  plain  of  Lombardy, 
bounded  to  the  west  by  the  far  Apen- 
nines, while  to  the  east  the  horizon  was 
lost  in  misty  distance.  After  the  pictur- 
esque but  limited  view  of  mountain, 
ravine,  and  chestnut-wood,  at  the  Baths 
of  Lucca,  there  was  something  infinitely 
gratifying  to  the  eye  in  the  wide  range 
of  prospect  commanded  by  our  new 
abode. 

Our  first  misfortune,  of  the  kind  from 


which   we   soon   suffered  even    more   se- 
verely, happened   here.      Our   little  girl, 

I  an  infant  in  whose  small  features  I  fan- 
cied that   I  traced  great   resemblance  to 

;  her  father,  showed  symptoms  of  suffering 
from  the  heat  of  the  climate.     Teething 

j   increased  her   illness  and   danger.       We 

I  were  at  Este,  and  when  we  became 
alarmed,  hastened  to  Venice  for  the  best 
advice.  When  we  arrived  at  Fusina,  we 
found  that  we  had  forgotten  our  passport, 
and  the  soldiers  on  duty  attempted  to 
prevent  our  crossing  the  laguna;  but 
they  could  not  resist  Shelley's  impetu- 
osity at  such  a  moment.  We  had  scarcely 
arrived  at  Venice  before  life  fled  from 
the  little  sufferer,  and  we  returned  to 
Este  to  weep  her  loss. 

After  a  few  weeks  spent  in  this  retreat, 
which  was  interspersed  by  visits  to  Ven- 
ice, we  proceeded  southward. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 
A    LYRICAL   DRAMA. 

IN     FOUR    ACTS. 

AUDISNH    HJEC    AMPHIARAE,    SUB    TERRAM 
ABDITE? 

PREFACE. 

The  Greek  tragic  writers,  in  selecting 
i   as    their    subject     any    portion    of    their 
national  history  or  mythology,  employed 
in   their   treatment   of  it   a   certain   arbi- 
1   trary  discretion.     They  by  no  means  con- 
|   ceived  themselves  bound  to  adhere  to  the 
common   interpretation   or   to  imitate  in 
I   story   as  in  title  their  rivals  and   prede- 
!   cessors.       Such    a    system     would     have 
I   amounted  to  a  resignation  of  those  claims 
to     preference     over     their     competitors 
j   which    incited     the    composition.       The 
Agamemnonian   story   was   exhibited   on 
j   the  Athenian  theatre  with  as  many  varia- 
tions as  dramas. 

I   have  presumed   to   employ  a  similar 
j   license.     The  "  Prometheus  Unbound  ' 
I   of  /Eschylus  supposed  the  reconciliation 
I   of  Jupiter  with  his  victim  as  the  price  of 


200 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  0  UND. 


the  disclosure  of  the  danger  threatened 
to  his  empire  by  the  consummation  of 
his  marriage  with  Thetis.  Thetis,  accord- 
ing to  this  view  of  the  subject,  was  given 
in  marriage  to  Peleus,  and  Prometheus, 
by  the  permission  of  Jupiter,  delivered 
from  his  captivity  by  Hercules.  Had  I 
framed  my  story  on  this  model,  I  should 
have  done  no  more  than  have  attempted 
to  restore  the  lost  drama  of  /Eschylus; 
an  ambition  which,  if  my  preference  to 
this  mode  of  treating  the  subject  had  in- 
cited me  to  cherish,  the  recollection  of 
the  high  comparison  such  an  attempt 
would  challenge  might  well  abate.  But, 
in  truth,  I  was  averse  from  a  catastrophe 
so  feeble  as  that  of  reconciling  the  Cham- 
pion with  the  Oppressor  of  mankind. 
The  moral  interest  of  the  fable,  which  is 
so  powerfully  sustained  by  the  sufferings 
and  endurance  of  Prometheus,  would  be 
annihilated  if  we  could  conceive  of  him 
as  unsaying  his  high  language  and  quail- 
ing before  his  successful  and  perfidious 
adversary.  The  only  imaginary  being 
resembling  in  any  degree  Prometheus,  is 
Satan;  and  Prometheus  is,  in  my  judg- 
ment, a  more  poetical  character  than 
Satan,  because,  in  addition  to  courage, 
and  majesty,  and  firm  and  patient  oppo- 
sition to  omnipotent  force,  he  is  suscep- 
tible of  being  described  as  exempt  from 
the  tahfts  of  ambition,  envy,  revenge, 
and  a  desire  for  personal  aggrandize- 
ment, which,  in  the  Hero  of  Paradise 
Lost,  interfere  with  the  interest.  The 
character  of  Satan  engenders  in  the  mind 
a  pernicious  casuistry  which  leads  us  to 
weigh  his  faults  with  his  wrongs,  and  to 
excuse  the  former  because  the  latter 
exceed  all  measure.  In  the  minds  of 
those  who  consider  that  magnificent  fic- 
tion with  a  religious  feeling  it  engenders 
something  worse.  But  Prometheus  is,  as 
it  were,  the  type  of  the  highest  perfec- 
tion of  moral  and  intellectual  nature, 
impelled  by  the  purest  and  the  truest 
motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends. 

This  Poem  was  chiefly  written  upon 
the  mountainous  ruins  of  the  Baths  of 
Caraoalla,  among  the  flowery  glades, 
and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blossoming 
trees,  which  are    extended  in  ever  wind- 


ing   labyrinths    upon    its  immense  plat- 
;   forms  and  dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the 
air.     The  bright  blue  sky  of   Rome,  and 
|   the     effect    of    the    vigorous    awakening 
|   spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the 
new    life    with    which    it     drenches     the 
spirits  even  to  intoxication,  were  the  in- 
spiration of  this  drama. 

The   imagery  which  I   have  employed 
I   will  be  found,  in  many  instances,  to  have 
!   been   drawn   from   the  operations  of  the 
\   human  mind,  or  from  those  external  ac- 
!   tions  by  which  they  are  expressed.     This 
!   is   unusual    in    modern   poetry,   although 
\   Dante   and   Shakespeare   are    full   of   in- 
stances of   the  same  kind:    Dante  indeed 
more    than    any    other    poet,    and    with 
greater  success.     But  the  Greek  poets,  as 
writers  to  whom  no  resource  of  awaken- 
\   iiig  the  sympathy  of  their  contemporaries 
'   was  unknown,  were  in  the  habitual  use 
of  this  power;  and  it  is  the  study  of  their 
works  (since  a  higher  merit  would  prob- 
ably be  denied  me)  to  which  I  am  will- 
ing that  my  readers  should  impute  this 
singularity. 

One  word  is  due  in  candor  to  the  de- 
gree in  which  the  study  of  contemporary 
writings   may   have   tinged   my  composi- 
tion, for  such  has  been  a  topic  of  censure 
j   with  regard  to  poems  far  more   popular, 
and  indeed  more  deservedly  popular,  than 
!   mine.      It  is  impossible  that  any  one  who 
j   inhabits  the  same  age  with  such  writers 
|   as  those  who  stand  in  the  foremost  ranks 
of   our    own,    can   conscientiously   assure 
;   himself    that    his   language   and    tone   of 
|   thought  may  not  have  been  modified  by 
the    study   of    the    productions  of    those 
extraordinary  intellects.      It  is  true,  that, 
not    the    spirit    of    their   genius,   but   the 
forms  in  which  it  has   manifested  itself, 
are  due  less   to   the   peculiarities  of  their 
own  minds  than  to  the  peculiarity  of  the 
moral   and    intellectual   condition   of  the 
minds  among  which  they  have  been  pro- 
duced.   Thus  a  number  of  writers  possess 
the   form,  whilst  they  want   the  spirit  of 
those  whom,  it   is  alleged,  they  imitate; 
because  the    former  is  the  endowment  of 
the  age  in  which  they  live,  and  the  latter 
must    be   the  uncommunicated    lightning 
of  their  own  mind. 


PR  OME  THE  US    I >A  '£  0  UND. 


261 


The  peculiar  style  of  intense  and  com- 
prehensive imagery  which  distinguishes 
the  modern  literature  of  England,  has 
not  been,  as  a  general  power,  the  prod- 
uct of  the  imitation  of  any  particular 
writer.  The  mass  of  capabilities  remains 
at  every  period  materially  the  same;  the 
circumstances  which  awaken  it  to  action 
perpetually  change.  If  England  were 
divided  into  forty  republics,  each  equal 
in  population  and  extent  to  Athens,  there 
is  no  reason  to  suppose  but  that,  under 
institutions  not  more  perfect  than  those 
of  Athens,  each  would  produce  philoso- 
phers and  poets  equal  to  those  who  (if 
we  except  Shakespeare)  have  never  been 
surpassed.  We  owe  the  great  writers  of 
the  golden  age  of  our  literature  to  that 
fervid  awakening  of  the  public  mind 
which  shook  to  dust  the  oldest  and  most 
oppressive  form  of  the  Christian  religion. 
We  owe  Milton  to  the  progress  and  de- 
velopment of  the  same  spirit :  the  sacred 
Milton  was,  let  it  ever  be  remembered, 
a  republican,  and  a  bold  inquirer  into 
morals  and  religion.  The  great  writers 
of  our  own  age  are,  we  have  reason  to 
suppose,  the  companions  and  forerunners 
of  some  unimagined  change  in  our  social 
condition  or  the  opinions  which  cement 
it.  The  cloud  of  mind  is  discharging  its 
collected  lightning,  and  the  equilibrium 
between  institutions  and  opinions  is  now 
restoring,  or  is  about  to  be  restored. 

As  to  imitation,   poetry  is  a   mimetic 
art.      It  creates,  but  it  creates  by  combi- 
nation and  representation.      Poetical  ab- 
stractions   are    beautiful    and    new,    not 
because  the   portions  of  which    they  are 
composed  had   no  previous  existence   in 
the  mind    of  man   or  in*  nature,  but  be- 
cause the  whole  produced  by  their  com-   j 
bination  has  some  intelligible  and  beauti-  | 
ful   analogy  with  those   sources  of    emo-   | 
tion  and  thought,  and  with  the  contem-   j 
porary    condition    of    them :     one    great   i 
poet    is  a  masterpiece  of    nature    which  ! 
another  not  only  ought  to  study  but  must   j 
study.      He  might  as  wisely  and  as  easily 
determine  that  his  mind  should  no  longer 
be  the  mirror  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the 
visible  universe,  as  exclude  from  his  con- 
templation the  beautiful  which  exists  in 


the  writings  of  a  great  contemporary. 
The  pretence  of  doing  it  would  be  a 
presumption  in  any  but  the  greatest;  the 
effect,  even  in  him,  would  be  strained, 
unnatural,  and  ineffectual.  A  poet  is 
the  combined  product  of  such  internal 
powers  as  modify  the  nature  of  others; 
and  of  such  external  influences  as  excite 
and  sustain  these  powers;  he  is  not  one, 
but  both.  Every  man's  mind  is,  in  this 
respect,  modified  by  all  the  objects  of 
nature  and  art;  by  every  word  and  every 
suggestion  which  he  ever  admitted  to  act 
upon  his  consciousness;  it  is  the  mirror 
upon  which  all  forms  are  reflected,  and 
in  which  they  compose  one  form.  Poets, 
not  otherwise  than  philosophers,  paint- 
ers, sculptors,  and  musicians,  are,  in  one 
sense,  the  creators,  and,  in  another,  the 
creations,  of  their  age.  From  this  sub- 
jection the  loftiest  do  not  escape.  There 
is  a  similarity  between  Homer  and  Hes- 
iod,  between  yEschylus  and  Euripides, 
between  Virgil  and  Horace,  between 
Dante  and  Petrarch,  between  Shake- 
speare and  Fletcher,  between  Dryden 
and  Pope;  each  has  a  generic  resem- 
blance under  which  their  specific  distinc- 
tions are  arranged.  If  this  similarity  be 
the  result  of  imitation,  I  am  willing  to 
confess  that  I  have  imitated. 

Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to 
me  of  acknowledging  that  I  have,  what 
a  Scotch  philosopher  characteristically 
terms,  "a  passion  for  reforming  the 
world:"  what  passion  incited  him  to 
write  and  publish  his  book,  he  omits  to 
explain.  For  my  part  I  had  rather  be 
damned  with  Plato  and  Lord  Bacon, 
than  go  to  Heaven  with  Paley  and  Mal- 
thus.  But  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  I  dedicate  my  poetical  compositions 
solely  to  the  direct  enforcement  of  re- 
form, or  that  I  consider  them  in  any 
degree  as  containing  a  reasoned  system 
on  the  theory  of  human  life.  Didactic 
poetry  is  my  abhorrence;  nothing  can  be 
equally  well  expressed  in  prose  that  is 
not  tedious  and  supererogatory  in  verse. 
My  purpose  has  hitherto  been  simply  to 
familiarize  the  highly  refined  imagination 
of  the  more  select  classes  of  poetical 
readers  with  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral 


262 


PA'  OME  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


excellence;  aware  that  until  the  mind 
can  love,  and  admire,  and  trust,  and 
hope,  and  endure,  reasoned  principles  of 
moral  conduct  are  seeds  cast  upon  the 
highway  of  life  which  the  unconscious 
passenger  tramples  into  dust,  although 
they  would  bear  the  harvest  of  his  hap- 
piness. Should  I  live  to  accomplish 
what  I  purpose,  that  is,  produce  a  sys- 
tematical history  of  what  appear  to  me 
to  be  the  genuine  elements  of  human 
society,  let  not  the  advocates  of  injustice 
and  superstition  flatter  themselves  that  I 
should  take  ^Eschylus  rather  than  Plato 
as  my  model. 

The  having  spoken  of  myself  with  un- 
affected freedom  will  need  little  apology 
with  the  candid;  and  let  the  uncandid 
consider  that  they  injure  me  less  than 
their  own  hearts  and  minds  by  misrepre- 
sentation. Whatever  talents  a  person 
may  possess  to  amuse  and  instruct  others, 
be  they  ever  so  inconsiderable,  he  is  yet 
bound  to  exert  them:  if  his  attempt  be 
ineffectual,  let  the  punishment  of  an  un- 
accomplished purpose  have  been  suffi- 
cient; let  none  trouble  themselves  to 
heap  the  dust  of  oblivion  upon  his  ef- 
forts; the  pile  they  raise  will  betray  his 
grave  which  might  otherwise  have  been 
unknown. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONM. 

Prometheus.  Mercury. 

Demogorgon.  Hercules. 

Jupiter.  Asia  ) 

The  Earth.  Panthea  >    Oceanides. 

Ocean.  Ione  ) 

Apollo. 

The  Phantasm  of  Jupiter. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Moon. 

Spirits  of  the  Hours. 

Spirits.     Echoes.     Fauns.     Furies. 


ACT   I. 

Scene.  —  A   Ravine  of  Icy  Rocks  in 
the  Indian  Caucasus. 

Prometheus  is  discovered  bound  to  the 
Precipice.  PANTHEA  and  Ione  are 
seated  at  his  feet.  Time,  night. 
During  the  Scene,  morning  slowly 
breaks. 


Prometheus.  Monarch  of  Gods  and 
Daemons,  and  all  Spirits 

But  One,  who  throng  those  bright  and 
rolling  worlds 

Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 

Behold  with  sleepless  eyes  !  regard  this 
Earth 

Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves, 
whom  thou 

Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and 
praise, 

And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken 
hearts, 

With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren 
hope. 

Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in 
hate, 

Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy 
scorn, 

O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  re- 
venge. 

Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unshel- 
tered hours, 

And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 

Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  soli- 
tude, 

Scorn  and  despair,  —  these  are  mine 
empire :  — 

More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou 
surveyest 

From  thine  unenvied  throne,  O  Mighty 
God! 

Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the 
shame 

Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 

Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling 
mountain, 

Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured;  with- 
out herb, 

Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of  life. 

Ah  me  !   alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope  !      Yet  I 

endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains 

felt? 
I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all -beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen?    The  Sea,  in  storm  or 

calm, 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Shadow,  spread 

below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony? 
Ah  me  !   alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


263 


The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the 

spears 
Of    their    moon-freezing    crystals;     the 

bright  chains 
Eat    with    their    burning    cold    into    my 

bones. 
Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from 

thy  lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My    heart;     and    shapeless   sights    come 

wandering  by, 
The     ghastly    people    of    the    realm    of 

dream, 
Mocking  me :  and  the  Earthquake-fiends 

are  charged 
To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering 

wounds 
When    the  rocks  split  and  close    again 

behind : 
While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling 

throng 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with  keen 

hail. 
And    yet    to    me    welcome    is    day    and 

night, 
Whether  one   breaks   the   hoar  frost   of 

the  morn, 
Or  starry,  dim,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 
The  leaden-colored   east;    for  then  they 

lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among 

whom 
—  As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluc- 
tant victim  — 
Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the 

blood 
From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might 

trample  thee 
If    they  disdained  not  such  a    prostrate 

slave. 
Disdain  !     Ah  no !     I  pity  thee.     What 

ruin 
Will  hunt  thee  undefended  thro' the  wide 

Heaven  ! 
How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth 

with  terror, 
Gape    like    a   hell   within !     I   speak  in 

grief, 
Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more, 
As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.     The 

curse 
Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recal. 


Ye  Mountains, 
Whose   many-voiced    Echoes,    thro'   the 

mist 
Of  cataracts,   flung  the  thunder  of  that 

spell ! 
Ye  icy  Springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling 

frost, 
Which   vibrated   to  hear    me,  and  then 

crept 
Shuddering  thro'  India!     Thou  serenest 

Air, 
Thro'  which  the  Sun  walks  burning  with- 
out beams  ! 
And  ye  swift  Wrhirlwinds,  who  on  poised 

wings 
Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  husht 

abyss, 
As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made 

rock 
The  orbed  world  !     If  then  my  words  had 

power, 
Tho'    I   am  changed  so  that  aught  evil 

wish 
Is  dead  within;    altho'  no  memory  be 
Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now  ! 
What  was  that   curse?  for  ye  all  heard 
me  speak. 
First  Jroice  (from  the  Mountains). 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 
O'er    the    Earthquake's    couch    we 
stood : 
Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears, 
We  trembled  in  our  multitude. 
Second  Voice  (from  the  Springs). 
Thunderbolts  had  parcht  our  water, 
We    had   been    stained  with    bitter 
blood, 
And  had  run    mute,    mid    shrieks    of 
slaughter, 
Thro'  a  city  and  a  solitude. 
Third  Voice  (from  the  Air). 
I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 

Its  wastes  in  colors  not  their  own, 
And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 

Been    cloven    by    many    a    rending 
groan. 
j     Fourth   Voice  (from  the  Whirkvinds). 
We  had  soared  beneath  these  moun- 
tains 
Unresting  ages;  nor  had  thunder, 
Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains, 
Nor  any  power  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 


264 


PR  OME  THE  US   UA  E  O  UND. 


First  Voice. 

With  Asia,  drinking  life.'  from  her  lovcti 

But  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 

eyes ; 

As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye, 

Second  Voice. 

now 

Never  such  a  sound  before 

To  commune  with   me?  me  alone,  who 

To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 

checkt, 

A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 

As     one     who    checks     a     fiend-drawn 

Leapt  up  from  the  deck  in  agony, 

And  heard,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  woe  is  me!" 

charioteer, 
The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who 

And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

reigns 

Third  Voice. 

Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining 

By  such  dread  words  from  Earth    to 

slaves 

Heaven 

Fills  your  dim  glens  and   liquid  wilder- 

My still  realm  was  never  riven: 

nesses  : 

When    its    wound    was    closed,    there 

Why  answer  ye  not,  still?     Brethren! 

stood 

The  Ear t!i.                       They  dare  not. 

Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

Prometheus.      Who  dares  ?   for  I  would 

Fourth   Voice. 

hear  that  curse  again. 

And  we   shrank  back :    for   dreams  of 

Ha,  what  an  awful  whisper  rises  up  ! 

ruin 

'T  is  scarce   like   sound :   it  tingles  thro' 

To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 

the  frame 

Made    us    keep    silence  —  thus  —  and 

As    lightning    tingles,    hovering    ere    it 

thus  — 

strike. 

Tho'  silence  is  a  hell  to  us. 

The  Earth.     The  tongueless  Caverns 

Speak,     Spirit !     from    thine    inorganic 
voice 

of  the  craggy  hills 
Cried,    "Misery!"    then;     the    hollow 

I    only    know    that     thou     art     moving 
near 

Heaven  replied, 

And  love.     How  curst  I  him? 

"Misery!"     And    the    Ocean's    purple 

The  Earth.            How  canst  thou  hear 

waves, 

Who  knowest  not  the   language  of  the 

Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lashing 

dead  ? 

winds, 

Prometheus.     Thou  art  a  living  spirit : 

And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  "  Misery  !" 
Prometheus.     I  hear  a  sound  of  voices : 

speak  as  they. 
The   Earth.      I   dare    not    speak    like 

not  the  voice 

life,  lest  Heaven's  fell  King 

Which  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons 

Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel 

and  thou 

of  pain 

Scorn    him,  without  whose  all-enduring 

More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon   1 

will 

roll. 

Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 

Subtle  thou  art    and  good,  and   tho'  the 

Both  they  and  thou  had   vanished,  like 

Gods 

thin  mist 

Hear  not  this  voice,  yet   thou   art  more 

Untolled  on  the  morning  wind.     Know 

than  Cod 

ye  not  me, 

Being  wise  and  kind :    earnestly  hearken 

The  Titan?     He  who  made  his  agony 

now. 

Tht   barrier   to  your  else  all-conquering 

Prometheus.     Obscurely  thro'  my  brain, 

foe? 

like  shadows  dim, 

Oh,   ^ock-embosomcd   lawns,  and  snow- 

Sweep  awful   thoughts,  rapid  and  thick. 

fed  streams, 

I   feel 

Now    seen    athwart    frore    vapors,    deep 

Faint,    like    one    mingled    in    entwining 

below, 

love ; 

Thro'    whose    o'ershadowing    woods    I 

Yet  't  is  not  pleasure. 

wandered   once 

'The  Earth.     No,  thou  canst  not  hear; 

PRO  ME  7  HE  UTS   UNB  O  UND. 


265 


Thou  art  immortal,   and   this   tongue  is 

known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

Prometheus.     And  what  art  thou, 
O  melancholy  Voice? 

The  Earth.      I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy   mother;    she    within    whose    stony 

veins, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen 

air, 
Joy  ran,  as  blood  within  a  living  frame, 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a 

cloud 
Of  glcry,  arise,  a  spirit  of   keen  joy! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sons  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting 

dust, 
And    our    almighty    Tyrant    with    fierce 

dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chained  thee 

here. 
Then,  see   those    million    worlds    which 

burn  and  roll 
Around  us :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  Heaven; 

the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strange  tempest,  and  new 

fire 
From    earthquake-rifted    mountains    of 

bright  snow 
Shook     its     portentous     hair     beneath 

Heaven's  frown; 
Lightning     and     Inundation    vext     the 

plains; 
Blue  thistles  bloomed  in  cities;  foodless 

toads 
Within    voluptuous    chambers     panting 

crawled: 
When   Plague   had   fallen   on   man,    and 

beast,  and  worm, 
And  Famine;  and  black  blight  on  herb 

and  tree; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow- 
grass, 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breast 

was  dry 
With  grief;  and  the  thin  air,  my  breath, 

was  stained 
With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 
Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer;  aye, 

I  heard 


Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  remember 

est  not, 
Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams, 
Mountains,  and  caves,   and  winds,   and 

yon  wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead, 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.    We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  hope    those    dreadful 

words 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

Prometheus.      Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  and  suffer  take  from 

thee 
Some  comfort;  flowers,   and   fruits,  and 

happy  sounds, 
And  love,  though  fleeting;  these  may  not 

be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  I  pray,  deny  me 

not. 
The  Earth.     They  shall  be  told.     Ere 

Babylon  was  dust, 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child, 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  garden. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  saw. 
For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life 

and  death : 
One  that  which  thou  beholdest;  but  the 

other 
Is  underneath  the   grave,  where   do  in- 
habit 
The  shadows  of  all  forms  that  think  and 

live 
Till  death  unite  them  and  they  part  no 

more ; 
Dreams  and  the  light  imaginings  of  men, 
And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires, 
Terrible,  strange,  sublime  and  beauteous 

shapes. 
There  thou  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writh- 
ing shade, 
Mid  whirlwind-peopled   mountains;     all 

the  gods 
Are  there,  and  all  the   powers   of  name- 
less worlds, 
Vast,   sceptred   phantoms;  heroes,   men, 

and  beasts; 
And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom; 
And    he,    the    supreme    Tyrant,    on    his 

throne 
Of  burning    gold.      Son,    one    of     these 

shall  utter 
The  curse  which  all  remember.     Call   at 

will 


266 


PR  OME  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 
Hades    or    Typhon,    or    what     mightier 

Gods 
From  all-prolific  Evil,  since  thy  ruin 
Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  pros- 
trate sons. 
Ask,  and  they  must  reply :  so  the  revenge 
Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  thro'  vacant 

shades, 
As  rainy  wind  thro'  the  abandoned  gate 
Of  a  fallen  palace. 

Prometheus.  Mother,  let  not  aught 
Of  that  which  may  be  evil,  pass  again 
My  lips,   or  those  of    aught  resembling 

me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear  ! 
lone. 
My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears: 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes  : 
Yet  thro'  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  thro'  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee 
0  thou  of  many  wounds  ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sweet  sister's  sake, 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 
Panthea. 
The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground, 
Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains 
cloven; 
The  shape  is  awful'like  the  sound, 
Clothed    in    dark    purple,    star-in- 
woven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold 

To  stay  steps   proud,  o'er  the  slow 
cloud 
His  veined  hand  doth  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers  wrong. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter.     Why  have  the 
secret  powers  of  this  strange  world 
Driven  me,  a  frail  and  empty  phantom, 

hither 
On  direst  storms?     What  unaccustomed 

sounds 
Are    hovering    on    my    lips,    unlike    the 

voice 
With  which  our  pallid  race  hold  ghastly 
talk 


In  darkm 


And,  proud  sufferer,  who 


art  thou? 
Prometheus.     Tremendous  Image,   as 
thou  art  must  be 


He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I  am 

his  foe, 
The  Titan.     Speak   the  words  which   I 

would  hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty 
voice. 
The  Earth.      Listen  !     And  tho'  your 
echoes  must  be  mute, 
Gray  mountains,   and    old    woods,    and 

haunted  springs, 
Prophetic   caves,     and    isle-surrounding 

streams, 
Rejoice    to    hear    what    yet    ye    cannot 
speak. 
Phantasm.     A   spirit    seizes    me    and 
speaks  within: 
It    tears    me    as    fire    tears    a    thunder- 
cloud. 
Panthea.     See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty 
looks,  the  Heaven 
Darkens  above. 

lone.  He  speaks  !   O  shelter  me  ! 

Prometheus.     I  see  the  curse  on   ges- 
tures proud  and  cold, 
And  looks  of  firm    defiance,    and    calm 

hate, 
And  such  despair  as  mocks    itself  with 

smiles, 
Written  as  on  a  scroll:  yet  speak:   Oh, 
speak  ! 

Phantasm. 
Fiend,  I  defy  thee  !  with  a  calm,  fixed 
mind, 
All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee 
do; 
Foul     Tyrant     both     of     Gods     and 
Human-kind, 
One    only     being     shalt     thou     not 
subdue. 
Rain     then     thy     plagues     upon     me 

here, 
Ghastly  disease,  and  frenzying  fear; 
And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 
Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legioned 

forms 
Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wdunding 
storms. 

Ay,    do    thy    worst !     Thou    art     om- 
nipotent. 
O'er   all   things  but   thyself   I   gave 
thee  power, 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


267 


And    my    own    will.     Be    thy     swift 

The  Earth. 

mischiefs  sent 

Misery,  Oh  misery  to  me, 

To      blast      mankind,      from      yon 

That  Jove  at  length  should  vanquish 

ethereal  tower. 

thee. 

Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 

Wail,  howl  aloud,  Land  and  Sea, 

In  darkness  over  those  I  love: 

The   Earth's   rent  heart  shall  answer 

On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 

ye. 

The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate; 

Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony, 

Your  refuge,  your  defence  lies  fallen  and 

This  undeclining  head  while  thou  must 

vanquished. 

reign  on  high. 

First  Echo. 

Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  ! 

But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord: 

Second  Echo. 

O,  thou, 

Fallen  and  vanquished  ! 

Who  fillest  with  thy  soul  this  world 

lone. 

of  woe, 

Fear  not :  't  is  but  some  passing  spasm, 

To    whom    all    things    of    Earth    and 

The  Titan  is  unvanquisht  still. 

Heaven  do  bow 

But  see,  where  thro'  the  azure  chasm 

In    fear    and    worship :    all-prevail- 

Of yon  forkt  and  snowy  hill 

ing  foe  ! 

Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

I  curse  thee  !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 

With    golden-sandalled    feet,    that 

Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse; 

glow 

Till  thine  Infinity  shall  be 

Under  plumes  of  purple  dye, 

A  robe  of  envenomed  agony; 

Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

And    thine    Omnipotence    a    crown    of 

A  Shape  comes  now, 

pain, 

Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 

To  cling   like   burning  gold   round    thy 

A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 

dissolving  brain. 

Panthea.      'T  is  Jove's  world-wander- 

ing herald,  Mercury. 

Heap   on  thy  soul,  by  virtue   of   this 

lone. 

Curse, 

And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 

111   deeds,    then   be    thou    damned, 

And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind, 

beholding  good; 

Whom  the  frowning  God  represses 

Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe, 

Like  vapors  steaming  up  behind, 

And    thou,    and    thy    self-torturing 

Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd  — 

solitude. 

Panthea. 

An  awful  image  of  calm  power 

These  are  Jove's  tempest-walking  hounds, 

Tho'  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 

Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 

Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 

When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

That  which  thou  art  internally. 

He  bursts  Heaven's  bounds. 

And    after   many    a    false    and    fruitless 

Tone. 

crime 

Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 

Scorn  track  thy  lagging  fall  thro'  bound- 

On new  pangs  to  be  fed  ? 

less  space  and  time. 

Panthea. 

The  Titan  looks  as  ever,  firm,  not  proud. 

Prometheus.     Were  these   my  words, 

First  Fury.     Ha!   I  scent  life  ! 

O,  Parent? 

Second  Fury.      Let   me  but  look  into 

The  Earth.                  They  were  thine. 

his  eyes  ! 

Prometheus.          It    doth    repent    me : 

Third  Fury.     The  hope   of  torturing 

words  are  quick  and  vain; 

him  smells  like  a  heap 

Grief  for  awhile  is  blind,  and  so  was 

Of  corpses,  to  a  death-bird  after  battle. 

mine. 

First    Fury.      Darest    thou    delny,    C 

I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

Herald  !  take  cheer,  Hounds 

26S 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


Of  Hell :   what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 
Should  make  us  food  and  sport  —  who 

can  please  long 
The  Omnipotent? 

Mercury.      Back    to   your    towers    of 

iron, 
And   gnash,    beside   the   streams  of  fire 

and  wail, 
Your    foodless    teeth.      Geryon,    arise ! 

and  Gorgon, 
Chimaera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of 

fiends 
Who    ministered    to    Thebes    Heaven's 

poisoned  wine, 
Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate  : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

First  Fury.  Oh,  mercy  !   mercy  ! 

We  die  with  our   desire :   drive   us   not 

back  ! 
Mercury.      Crouch  then  in  silence. 
Awful  Sufferer 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  great  Father's  will  driven 

down, 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas  !   I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can  do   no  more :   aye   from  thy 

sight 
Returning,  for  a  season,  Heaven  seems 

Hell, 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and 
-    day> 

Smiling   reproach.      Wise  art  thou,  firm 

and  good, 
But  vainly  wouldst  stand   forth  alone  in 

strife 
Against    the  Omnipotent;    as  yon  clear 

lamps 
That  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 
From    which    there    is    no   refuge,    long 

have  taught 
And   long  must  teach.     Fven   now  thy 

Torturer  arms 
With  the  strange   might  of   unimagined 

pains 
The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies  in 

Hell, 
And    my    commission    is    to    lead    them 

here, 
Or    what    more    subtle,    foul,    or   savage 

fiends 
People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their 

task. 


Be  it  not  so  !  there  is  a  secret  known 
To    thee,    and    to    none    else    of    living 

things, 
Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide 

Heaven, 
The  fear  of  which  perplexes  the  Supreme  : 
Clothe  it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  his 

throne 
In  intercession;   bend  thy  soul  in  prayer, 
And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous 

fane, 
Let  the   will  kneel  within  thy  haughty 

heart: 
For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 
The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

Prometheus.  Evil  minds 

Change    good   to  their   own   nature.     I 

gave  all 
He   has  ;    and  in   return   he  chains   me 

here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day:   whether  the 

Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in  the  moony 

night 
The  crystal-winged  snow  cling  round  my 

hair : 
Whilst  my  beloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such   is   the    tyrant's    recompense :     *t  is 

just: 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good; 
And  for  a  world  bestowed,  or  a  friend 

lost, 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame;    not  grat- 
itude : 
He    but    requites    me    for  his  own  mis- 
deed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which 

breaks 
With  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of   Re- 
venge. 
Submission,    thou   dost    know    I    cannot 

try: 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity, 
Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword, 
Which  trembles  o'er    his  crown,   would 

he  accept, 
Or  could  I  yield?     Which  yet  I  will  not 

yield. 
Let    others    flatter   Crime,   where    it    sits 

throned 
In  brief  Omnipotence:    secure  are  they: 


PR  OME  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


269 


For  Justice,  when  triumphant,  will  weep 

down 
Pity,     not     punishment,     on     her     own 

wrongs, 
Too    much    avenged    by  those  who    err. 

I  wait, 
Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 
Which  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer  now. 
But  hark,  the  hell-hounds  clamor:   fear 

delay : 
Behold !     Heaven     lowers     under     thy 

Father's  frown. 
Mercury.     Oh,     that     we     might     be 

spared:    I  to  inflict 
And  thou  to  suffer  !     Once  more  answer 

me : 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's 

power  ? 
Prometheus.     I  know  but  this,  that  it 

must  come. 
Mercury.  Alas ! 

Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come 

of  pain? 
Prometheus,     They    last     while     Jove 

must  reign :    nor  more,  nor  less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

Mercury.      Vet  pause,  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time, 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age, 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight, 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless; 
Perchance  it  has  not  numbered  the  slow 

years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unre- 

prieved  ? 
Prometheus.      Perchance    no    thought 

can  count  them,  yet  they  pass. 
Mercury.      If      thou     might'st     dwell 

among  the  Gods  the  while 
Lapt  in  voluptuous  joy? 

Prometheus.  I  would  not  quit 

This    bleak    ravine,    these    unrepentant 

pains. 
Mercury.     Alas!      I    wonder    at,    yet 

pity  thee. 
Prometheus.      Pity    the     self-despising 

slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not  me,  within  whose   mind  sits  peace 

serene, 
As  light  in  the  sun,  throned:   how  vain 

is  talk  ! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 


lone.     O,  sister,  look  !     White  fire 

Has  cloven  to  the  roots  yon  huge  snow- 
loaded  cedar; 

How  fearfully  God's  thunder  howls  be- 
hind ! 
Mercury.     I  must  obey  his  words  and 
thine :   alas ! 

Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 
Panthea.     See    where    the    child    of 
Heaven,  with  winged  feet, 

Runs   down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the 
dawn. 
lone.     Dear    sister,  close  thy   plumes 
over  thine  eyes 

Lest  thou  behold  and  die :   they  come : 
they  come 

Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  count- 
less wings, 

And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 
First  Fury.  Prometheus ! 

Second  Fury.     Immortal  Titan  ! 
Third  Fury.  Champion  of 

Heaven's  slaves  ! 
Prometheus.     He  whom  some  dread- 
ful voice  invokes  is  here, 

Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.     Horri- 
ble forms, 

What  and  who  are  ye?     Never  yet  there 
came 

Phantasms  so  foul  thro'  monster-teeming 
Hell 

From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove; 

Whilst  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 

Methinks    I   grow   like  what   I  contem- 
plate, 

And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sym- 
pathy. 
First  Fury.     We  are  the  ministers  of 
pain,  and  fear, 

And  disappointment,  and    mistrust,  and 
hate, 

And   clinging   crime;    and  as   lean  dogs 
pursue 

Thro'  wood  and   lake  some  struck  and 
sobbing  fawn, 

We  track  all  things  that  weep,  and  bleed, 
and  live, 

When   the   great    King  betrays   them  to 
our  will. 
Prometheus.    Oh  !  many  fearful  natures 
in  one  name, 

I  know  ye;    and  these  lakes  and  echoes 
know 


270 


PRO  ME  THE  US    UNB  0  UND. 


The  darkness   and  the   clangor   of  your 

wings. 
But  why  more  hideous  than  your  loathed 

selves 
Gather    ye    up     in     legions     from    the 

deep? 
Second  Fury.      We   knew   not   that : 

Sisters,  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 
Prometheus.     Can   aught   exult   in   its 

deformity? 
Second  Fury.     The  beauty  of  delight 

makes  lovers  glad, 
Gazing  on  one  another :   so  are  we. 
As  from  the  rose  which  the  pale  priestess 

kneels 
To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 
The    aerial    crimson    falls,    flushing    her 

cheek, 
So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony 
The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us 

round, 
Else    we    are    shapeless    as    our    mother 

Night. 
Prometheus.     I  laugh  your  power,  and 

his  who  sent  you  here, 
To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth  the  cup  of 

pain. 
First  Fury.     Thou    thinkest    we    will 

rend  thee  bone  from  bone, 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  like  fire 

within? 
Prometheus.     Pain  is  my  element,  as 

hate  is  thine; 
Ye  rend  me  now:   I  care  not. 

Second  Fury.  Dost  imagine 

We    will    but    laugh     into     thy     lidless 

eyes? 
Prometheus.     I  weigh  not  what  ye  do, 

but  what  ye  suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel  was  the  power  which 

called 
You,    or    aught    else    so   wretched,   into 

light. 
Third  Fury.     Thou  think'st   we   will 

live  thro'  thee,  one  by  one, 
Like  animal  life,  and  tho'  we  can  obscure 

not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  will 

dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will   be  dread   thought  beneath 

thy  brain, 


And  foul   desire    round    thine    astonisht 

heart, 
And  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins 
Crawling  like  agony. 

Prometheus.      Why,  ye  are  thus  now; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself,  and  rule 
The    torturing    and     conflicting    throngs 

within, 
As    Jove    rules   you    when    Hell    grows 
mutinous. 

Chorus  of  Furies. 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth, 
Where  the   night  has  its  grave  and  the 
morning  its  birth, 
Come,  come,  come  ! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream 

of  your  mirth, 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin;    and 

Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the 

sea, 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's 

track, 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless 
wreck ; 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning: 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 

When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning: 
Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel: 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer;  cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 
Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come  ! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate 
And     we     burden     the     blast     of     the 

atmosphere, 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 
lone.      .Sister,    I    hear   the   thunder  of 

new  wings. 
Pa  nth  en.        These      solid      mountains 
quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air:  their  shadows 

make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black 
than  night. 


PR  OME  THE  US    UXB  O  UND. 


271 


Fi'/st  Fury. 
Your  call  was  as  a  winged  car 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulfs  of  war. 

Second  Fury. 
From  wide  cities,  famine- wasted; 

Third  Fury. 
Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted; 

Fourth  Fury. 
Kingly  conclaves  stern  and  cold, 
Where   blood  with   gold   is   bought   and 
sold; 

Fifth   Fury. 
From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which  — 

A  Fury. 
Speak  not :   whisper  not : 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  Hell. 

Fury. 
Tear  the  veil ! 

Another  Fury. 
It  is  torn. 

Chorus. 
The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery,  dire  to  be  borne. 
Dost    thou    faint,    mighty    Titan?       We 

laugh  thee  to  scorn. 
Dost    thou    boast    the    clear    knowledge 

thou  waken 'dst  for  man? 
Then  was   kindled  within    him    a    thirst 

which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters;  a  thirst  of  fierce 

fever, 
Hope,   love,   doubt,    desire,   which    con- 
sume him  for  ever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth; 
His    words    outlived     him,    like    swift 
poison 
Withering  up  truth,  peace,  and  pity. 
Look  !   where  round  the  wide  horizon 

Many  a  million-peopled  city 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright   air. 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair  ! 
'T  is  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled: 
Look  again,  the  flames  almost 

To      a      glow-worm's     lamp      have 
dwindled : 


The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 
Joy,  joy,  joy  ! 
Past   ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one 

remembers, 
And  the  future  is  dark,  and  the  present 

is  spread 
Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumber- 
less  head. 

Semichorus  F 
Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 
From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 
Grant  a  little  respite  now : 
See  a  disenchanted  nation 
Springs  like  day  from  desolation; 
To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 
And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate; 
A  legioned  ban  of  linked  brothers 
Whom  Love  calls  children  — 
Semichorus  IF 

'T  is  another's*. 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin: 
'T  is  the  vintage-time  for  death  and  sin : 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within: 
Till  Despair  smothers 
The  struggling  world,  which  slaves  and 
tyrants  win. 
[.-///  the  Furies  vanish,  except  one. 
lone.     Hark,  sister!    what   a   low  yet 
dreadful  groan. 
Quite  unsupprest  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of    the  good   Titan,  as  storms  tear  the 

deep, 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland 

caves. 
Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  tor- 
ture him? 
Panthea.      Alas!  I  looked  forth  twice, 

but  will  no  more. 
lone.     What  didst  thou  see? 
Panthea.       A    woful    sight :     a    youth 
With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucifix. 
lone.     What  next  ? 

Panthea.       The    heaven    around,    the 
earth  below 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human 

death, 
All    horrible,    and    wrought    by    human 

hands, 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human 

hearts, 
For  men  were   slowly  killed    by  frowns 
and  smiles: 


272 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


And  other  sights  too   foul  to  speak  and 

live 
Were  wandering  by.      Let  us   not   tempt 

worse  fear 
By  looking  forth :    those  groans  are  grief 

enough. 
Fury.     Behold  an  emblem :  those  who 

do  endure 
Deep   wrongs   for  man,   and    scorn,   and 

chains,  but  heap 
Thousand-fold  torment  on  themselves  and 

him. 
Prometheus.       Remit    the    anguish    of 

that  lighted  stare; 
Close    those    wan    lips;     let    that    thorn- 
wounded  brow 
Stream  not  with  blood;    it  mingles  with 

thy  tears  ! 
Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and 

death, 
So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix, 
So  those   pale   fingers   play  not  with   thy 

gore. 
O,  horrible  !  thy  name  I  will  not  speak, 
It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 
The    wise,   the   mild,  the   lofty,  and   the 

just, 
Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to 

thee, 
Some    hunted    by    foul     lies    from    their 

heart's  home, 
An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  home; 
As  hooded  ounces   cling    to    the    driven 

hind; 
Some    linkt  to  corpses  in  unwholesome 

cells: 
Some  —  Hear  I  not  the  multitude  laugh 

loud  ?  — 
Impaled   in    lingering    fire:    and  mighty 

realms 
Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles, 
Whose  sons  are   kneaded   down  in  com- 
mon blood 
By  the    red    light   of   their   own   burning 

homes. 
Fury.     Blood    thou    canst    see,    and 

fire;    and  canst  hear  groans; 
Worse   things,  unheard,   unseen,   remain 

behind. 
Prometheus.      Worse? 
Fury.      In    each   human   heart    terror 

survives 
The  ruin  it  has  corned :    the  loftiest  fear 


All    that    they    would    disdain    to    think 

were  true : 
Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  out- 
worn. 
They    dare    not    devise  good    for  man's 

estate, 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not 

dare. 
The    good    want    power,    but    to    weep 

barren  tears. 
The    powerful     goodness    want  :     worse 

need  for  them. 
The    wise    want    love;    and    those    who 

love  want  wisdom; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to 

ill. 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be 

just, 
But    live    among   their  suffering  fellow- 
men 
As   if    none    felt :    they   know    not   what 

they  do. 
Prometheus.     Thy   words    are    like    a 

cloud  of  winged  snakes; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not. 
Fury.     Thou   pitiest    them  ?    I    speak 

no  more  !  [  /  'anishes. 

Prometheus.  Ah  woe  ! 

Ah    woe  !     Alas  !     pain,    pain   ever,   for 

ever  ! 
I    close    my  tearless   eyes,  but    see   more 

clear 
Thy  works  within  my  woe-illumed  mind, 
Thou    subtle    tyrant  !      Peace   is    in    the 

grave. 
The  grave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and 

good  : 
I  am  a  God  and  cannot  find  it  there, 
Nor   would    I   seek  it :     for,   tho'     dread 

revenge, 
This  is  defeat,  fierce  king,  not  victory. 
The    sights    with    which    thou    torturest 

gird  my  soul 
With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 
When    they  shall  be  no  types  of   things 

which  are. 
Fanthea.     Alas!  what  sawest  thou? 
Prometheus.  There  are  two  woes: 

To    speak,    and    to    behold;    thou   spare 

me  one. 
Names  are  there.  Nature-  s  sacred  watch- 
words, I  hey 


PR  OME  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


75 


Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry; 
The  nations  thronged  around,  and  cried 

aloud, 
As  with  one  voice,  Truth,   liberty,  and 

love  ! 
Suddenly    fierce    confusion     fell     from 

heaven 
Among   them:   there  was   strife,  deceit, 

and  fear : 
Tyrants    rushed  in,    and   did    divide  the 

spoil. 
This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 
The  Earth.      I   felt  thy  torture,   son, 

with  such  mixt  joy 
As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy 

state 
I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits, 
Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human 

thought, 
And    who    inhabit,    as    birds    wing    the 

wind, 
Its    world-surrounding    ether:    they   be- 
hold 
Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  future:    may  they  speak   comfort   to 

thee  ! 
Fanthea.     Look,  sister,  where  a  troop 

of  spirits  gather, 
Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delight- 
ful weather, 
Thronging  in  the  blue  air  ! 

lone.     And  see  !  more  come, 
Like  fountain-vapors  when  the  winds  are 

dumb, 
That    climb   up  the   ravine  in   scattered 

lines. 
And,  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines? 
Is  it  the  lake?     Is  it  the  waterfall? 
Tanthea.       'T  is    something    sadder, 

sweeter  far  than  all. 
Chorus  of  Spirits. 
From  unremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-opprest  mortality; 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  gray, 
Like  a  storm-extinguisht  day, 
Travelled  o'er  by  dying  gleams; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams, 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind, 


As  the  fish  within  the  wave, 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  thro'  all  above  the  grave; 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Thro'  the  boundless  element : 
Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee  ! 

lone.     More  yet  come,  one   by  one: 
the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 

First  Spirit. 
On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
1  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn, 
Gathering  round  me,  onward  borne, ' 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry  — 
Freedom  !   Hope  !  Death  !  Victory  ! 

|   Till  they  faded  thro'  the  sky; 
And  one  sound,  above,  around, 
One  sound  beneath,  around,  above, 
Was  moving;   't  was  the  soul  of  love; 
'T  was  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 

'   Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 
Second  Spirit. 
A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rockt  beneath,  immovably; 

■   And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee, 

I    Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud, 
Between,  with  many  a  captive  cloud, 

i   A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Lach  by  lightning  riven  in  half: 
I  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh: 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

Third  Spirit. 
I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed, 

1   And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 
Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed, 

i  When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame, 
To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 
And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 
Which  had  kindled  long  ago 
Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe; 
And  the  world  awhile  below 
Wore  the  shade,  its  lustre  made 


274 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 
As  Desire's  lightning  feet: 
I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow, 
Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

Fourth  Spirit. 
On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 
Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 
In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept; 
Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 
But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 
Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wikler- 

nesses. 
He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 
The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 
The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 
Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be; 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality  ! 
One  of  these  awakened  me, 
And  I  sped  to  succor  thee. 

lone. 
Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the 

east  and  west 
Come,    as    two    doves    to    one    beloved 

nest, 
Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air 
On    swift    still    wings    glide    down    the 

atmosphere? 
And,  hark!  their  sweet,  sad  voices  !  'tis 

despair 
Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in 

sound. 
Panthea.      Canst    thou  speak,  sister? 

all  my  words  are  drowned. 
lone.     Their  beauty  gives   me  voice. 

See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skyey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's 

fire. 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  love? 
Fifth  Spint. 

As  over  wide  dominions ' 
I  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings 

the  wide  air's  wildernesses, 
That  planet -crested  shape   swept   by  on 

lightning-braided  pinions, 
Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  hijs 

ambrosial  tresses: 
His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light; 

hut  as  I  past  'twas  fading,  / 


y\ 


And  hollow  Ruin  yawned  behind :  great 

sages  bound  in  madness, 
And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths 

who  perished,  unupbraiding, 
Gleamed  in  the  night.     I  wandered  o'er, 

till  thou,  O  King  of  sadness, 
Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to 
recollected  gladness. 
Sixth  Spirit. 
Ah,  sister  !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing : 
It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on 

the  air, 
But  treads  with  killing  footstep,  and  fans 

with  silent  wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts 

the  best  and  gentlest  bear; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fan- 
ning plumes  above 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft 

and  busy  feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the 

monster,  Love, 
And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as 
he  whom  now  we  greet. 
Chorus. 
Tho'  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
Following  him,  destroyingly, 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee, 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair, 
Like  a  tempest  thro'  the  air; 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  tho'  in  heart  or  limb. 

Prometheus.     Spirits !     how  know    ye 
this  shall  be? 

... Ckoriis. 

.  Tn  the  atmosphere  we  breathe, 
As  buds  grow  red  when  the  snow-storms 
flee, 
From  spring  gathering  up  beneath, 
|  Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder  brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow: 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace,       / 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 
Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 
To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 
Tone.      Where  are  the  Spirits  iled? 
Panthea.  Only  a  sense 

Remains    of    them,    like    the    omnipo- 
tence 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


275 


Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and 

lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute, 
Which  thro'   the  deep  and  labyrinthine 

soul, 
Like    echoes    thro'   long   caverns,    wind 

and  roll. 
Prometheus.     How  fair  these  air-born 

shapes  !  and  yet  I  feel 
Most  vain  all  hope  but   love;    and  thou 

art  far, 
Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust. 
All  things  are  still :   alas  !  how  heavily 
This    quiet    morning    weighs     upon     my 

heart; 
Tho'  I  should  dream  I  could  even  sleep 

with  grief 
If   slumber   were  denied   not.     I  would 

fain 
Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 
The  savior  and  the  strength  of  suffering 

man, 
Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things: 
There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left; 
Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment 

no  more. 
Panthea.      Hast    thou    forgotten    one 

who  watches  thee 
The   cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps 

but  when 
The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her? 
Prometheus.     I  said  all  hope  was  vain 

but  love:   thou  lovest. 
Panthea.      Deeply   in  truth;    but   the 

eastern  star  looks  white, 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The    scene    of    her    sad    exile;     rugged 

once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine; 
But   now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and 

herbs, 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds, 

which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the 

ether 
Of    her    transforming    presence,    which 

would  fade 
If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.     Fare- 
well! 

END   OF   THE    FIRST   ACT. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE    I. — Morning.       A    lovely 
Vale     in    the    Indian    Caucasus. 

Asia  alone. 

Asia.     From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven 

thou  hast  descended: 
Yes,   like  a  spirit,  like  a  thought,  which 

makes 
Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes, 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart, 
Which  should  have  learned  repose  :  thou 

hast  descended 
Cradled  in  tempests;   thou  dost  wake,  O 

Spring  ! 
O  child  of  many  winds  !     As  suddenly 
Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
WThich  now  is  sad  because  it  hath  been 

sweet; 
Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riseth  up 
As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden 

clouds 
The  desert  of  our  life. 
This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour; 
At    sunrise    thou    shouldst    come,  sweet 

sister  mine, 
Too    long    desired,    too    long    delaying, 

come  ! 
How  like  death-worms  the  wingless  mo- 
ments crawl  ! 
The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering 

still 
Deep  in    the  orange    light   of  widening 

morn 
Beyond   the   purple   mountains :   thro'  a 

chasm 
Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 
Reflects    it :    now  it    wanes :    it    gleams 

again 
As   the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning 

threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air: 
'T  is  lost !   and  thro'  yon  peaks  of  cloud- 
like snow 
The  roseate  sunlight  quivers:   hear  I  not 
The    yEolian    music    of    her    sea-green 

plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn? 

[Panthea  enters. 

I  feel,  I  see 

Those  eyes  which  burn  thro'  smiles  that 

fade  in  tears, 


PA'  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


Like  stars  half  quencht  in  mists  of  silver 

dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live, 
How  late  thou  art !    the  sphered  sun  had 

climbed 
The  sea;   my  heart  was  sick  with  hope, 

before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 
Panthea.     Pardon,  great   Sister !    but 

my  wings  were  faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remembered  dream, 
As  are  the  noontide   plumes  of  summer 

winds 
Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont 

to  sleep 
Peacefully,  and  awake  refresht  and  calm 
Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall,  and  thy 
Unhappy  love,  had  made,  thro'  use  and 

pity, 

Both  love  and  wo  familiar  to  my  heart 
As  they  had  grown  to  thine :   erewhile  I 

slept 
Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 
Within  dim  bowers  of  green  and  purple 

moss, 
Our  young  Ione's  soft  and  milky  arms 
Locked  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark, 

moist  hair, 
While    my   shut    eyes    and    cheek    were 

pressed  within 
The   folded  depth  of  her   life-breathing 

bosom  : 
But   not  as  now,   since   I   am  made  the 

wind 
Which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I  bear 
Of    thy   most   wordless    converse;    since 

dissolved 
Into  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my 

rest 
Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet;  my  waking 

hours 
Too  full  of  care  and  pain. 

Asia.  Lift  up  thine  eyes, 

And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

Panthea.  As  I  have  said 

With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  mists,   condensing   at   our 

voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy 

flakes, 
From  the  keen  ice  shielding  our   linked 

sleep. 


Then  two  dreams  came.  One,  I  remem- 
ber not. 

But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-worn 
limbs 

Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure 
night 

Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 

Which  lives  unchanged  within,  and  his 
voice  fell 

Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the  dim 
brain, 

Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy : 

"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the 
world 

With  loveliness — more  fair  than  aught 
but  her, 

Whose  shadow  thou  art  —  lift  thine  eyes 
on  me." 

I  lifted  them :  the  overpowering  light 

Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed 
o'er 

By  love;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flow- 
ing limbs, 

And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint 
eyes, 

Steamed  forth  like  vaporous  fire;  an 
atmosphere 

Which  wrapt  me  in  its  all-dissolving 
power, 

As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 

Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wan- 
dering dew. 

I  saw  not,  heard   not,   moved   not,    only 

felt 
His  presence  flow  and   mingle   thro'  my 

blood 
Till  it  became  his  life,  and  his  grew  mine, 
And  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  past, 
And  like  the  vapors  when  the  sun  sinks 

down, 
Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines, 
And    tremulous    as    they,    in     the     deep 

night 
My    being    was    condenst;    and    as    the 

rays 
Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could 

hear 

I I  is   voice,    whose    accents    lingered    ere 

they  died 
Like    footsteps    of     weak     melody:    thy 

name 
Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 
Of  what  might  be  articulate,-  tho'  still 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


277 


I  listened   thro'    the    night   when  sound 

was  none, 
lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me: 
"  Canst  thou  divine  what  troubles  me  to- 
night? 
I  always  knew  what  I  desired  before, 
Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 
But  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek; 
I   know  not;    something  sweet,  since   it 

is  sweet 
Even    to   desire;    it   is    thy   sport,    false 

sister; 
Thou  hast  discovered  some  enchantment 

old, 
Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as   I 

slept 
And  mingled  it  with  thine :  for  when  just 

now 
We  kist,  I  felt  within  thy  parted  lips 
The  sweet  air  that  sustained  me,  and  the 

warmth 
Of    the   life-blood,   for  loss  of  which    I 

faint, 
Quivered     between      our      intertwining 

arms." 
I    answered    not,    for    the    Eastern    star 

grew  pale, 
But  fled  to  thee. 

Asia.     Thou  speakest,  but  thy  words 
Are    as    the   air :    I    feel    them    not :    O 

lift 
Thine  eyes,  that   I  may  read  his  written 

soul ! 
Panthea.      I  lift  them  tho'  they  droop 

beneath  the  load 
Of  that  they  would  express :  what  canst 

thou  see 
But  thine    own    fairest    shadow    imaged 

there? 
Asia.     Thine  eyes  are   like   the   deep, 

blue,  boundless  heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 
Their  long,  fine  lashes;   dark,  far,  meas- 
ureless, 
Orb  within  orb,  and   line  thro'   line  in- 
woven. 
Panthea.      Why  lookest  thou   as  if    a 

spirit  past? 
Asia.     There     is    a    change:    beyond 

their  inmost  depth 
I  see  a  shade,  a  shape:  't  is  He,  arrayed 
In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which 

spread 


Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded 

moon. 
Prometheus,  it  is  thine  !  depart  not  yet ! 
Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  shall  meet 

again 
Within  that  bright  pavilion  which  their 

beams 
Shall  build  on  the   waste   world?     The 

dream  is  told. 
What   shape    is    that    between    us?     Its 

rude  hair 
Roughens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 
Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  't  is  a  thing  of  air 
For  thro'  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden 

dew 
Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quencht  not. 
Dream.  Follow  !   Follow  ! 

Panthea.     It  is  mine  other  dream. 
Asia.  It  disappears. 

Panthea.      It     passes     now     into     my' 

mind.     Methought 
As   we    sate    here,    the    flower-infolding 

buds 
Burst  on  yon   lightning-blasted    almond- 
tree, 
When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  wil- 
derness 
A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth 

with  frost : 
I    lookt,    and    all    the    blossoms    were 

blown  down; 
But  on    each    leaf  was    stampt,   as    the 

blue  bells 
Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 

O,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ! 

Asia.         As  you   speak,    your  words 
Fill,  pause  by  pause,  my  own  forgotten 

sleep 
With    shapes.     Methought    among    the 

lawns  together 
We    wandered,    underneath    the    young 

gray  dawn, 
And    multitudes    of    dense  white    fleecy 

clouds 
Were   wandering   in    thick    flocks    along 

the  mountains 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind; 
And  the  white    dew  on    the    new  bladed 

_  grass, 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth, hung  silently  : 
And  there  was   more  which   I  remember 

not : 
But  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  cloud?, 


278 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


Athwart  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was 

written 
Follow,  O,    follow  !  as  they  vanisht 

by, 

And  on  each  herb,  from  which  Heaven's 

dew  had  fallen, 
The  like   was  stampt,  as  with   a  wither- 
ing fire, 
A  wind  arose  among  the  pines;    it  shook 
The   clinging  music   from  their   boughs, 

and  then 
Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the   fare- 
well of  ghosts, 
Were  heard :   O,  follow,  follow,  fol- 
low me  ! 
And   then   I   said:    "  Panthea,   look   on 

me." 
But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 
Still  I  saw,  FOLLOW,  follow  ! 

Echo.  Follow,  follow  ! 

Panthea.     The  crags,  this  clear  spring 
morning,  mock  our  voices 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

Asia.  It  is  some  being 

Around    the    crags.       What     fine     clear 
sounds  !     O,  list ! 

Echoes  (unseen). 
Echoes  we  :   listen  ! 
We  cannot  stay: 
As  dew-stars  glisten 
Then  fade  away — ■ 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 
Asia.     Hark !      Spirits    speak.      The 
liquid  responses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 
Panthea.  I  hear. 

Echoes. 
O,  follow,  follow, 

As  our  voice  recedeth 
Thro'  the  caverns  hollow, 
Where  the  forest  spreadeth; 
(More  distant.) 
O,  follow,  follow  ! 
Thro'  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew, 
Thro'  the  noontide  darkness  deep, 
By  the  odor-breathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves, 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 


Asia.     Shall  we  pursue  the  sound?    It 
grows  more  faint 
And  distant. 

Panthea.  List !  the  strain  floats 

nearer  now. 

Echoes. 
In  the  world  unknown 

Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken; 
By  thy  step  alone 

Can  its  rest  be  broken; 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 
Asia.     How  the  notes  sink  upon  the 
ebbing  wind  ! 

Echoes. 
O,  follow,  follow  ! 
Thro'  the  caverns  hollow, 
As*the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  the  woodland  noontide  dew; 
By  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains 
Thro'  the  many-folded  mountains; 
To  the  rents,  and  gulfs,  and  chasms, 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now; 
Child  of  Ocean  ! 
Asia.     Come,  sweet  Panthea,  link  thy 
hand  in  mine, 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 

SCENE  II. — A  Forest,  intermin- 
gled with  Rocks  and  Caverns. 

Asia  and  Panthea  pass  into  it.  Two 
young  Fauns  are  sitting  on  a  Rock 
listen  ing. 

Semichorus  E  of  Spirits. 
The  path  thro'  which  that  lovely  twain 
Have  past,  by  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 
And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew, 
Is   curtained    out    from    Heaven's    wide 

blue; 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain, 
Can  pierce  its  interwoven  bowers, 
Nor  aught,  save  where  some  cloud  of 
dew, 
Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze, 
Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees, 

Hangs    each    a   pearl    in    the    pale 
flowers 
Of  the  green  laurel,  blown  anew; 
And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 
One  frail  and  fair  anemone:  .  , 


PR  uivlE  1  "HE  US    CfiVB  O  UND. 


279 


Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 
That  climbs  and  wanders  thro'  steep  night, 
Has  found  the  cleft  thro'  which  alone 
Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 
Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away, 
By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay, 
It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light, 
Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite: 
And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around. 
And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 

Semichorus  II. 
There  the  voluptuous  nightingales, 

Are  awake  thro'  all  the  broad   noon- 
day. 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails, 

And  thro'  the  windless   ivy-boughs, 
Sick   with   sweet   love,    droops    dying 
away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom; 
Another  from  the  swinging  blossom, 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 
Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifts  on  high 
The  wings  of  the  weak  melody, 
Till  some  new  strain  of   feeling  bear 

The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute; 
When  there  is  heard  thro'  the  dim  air 
The  rush  of  wings,  and  rising  there 

Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute, 
Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 
So  sweet,  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 

Semichorus  I. 
There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 

Of  echoes,  music-tongued,  which  draw, 
By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law, 
With  melting  rapture,  or  sweet  awe, 
All  spirits  on  that  secret  way; 

As  inland  boats  are  driven  to  Ocean 
Down  streams  made  strong  with  moun- 
tain-thaw : 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound, 
And  wakes  the   destined.     Soft  emo- 
tion 
Attracts,  impels  them :   those  who  saw 
Say  from  the  breathing  earth  behind 
There  steams  a  plume-uplifting  wind 
Which  drives  them  on  their  path,  while 
they 
Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 
The  sweet  desires  within  obey: 
And  so  they  float  upon  their  way, 
Until,  still   sweet,  but    loud    and   strong, 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along, 


Suckt  up  and  hurrying:   as  they  fleet 
Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 
And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 
Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

First    Faun.       Canst      thou     imagine 

where  those  spirits  live 
Which  make  such  delicate  music   in  the 

woods  ? 
We  haunt    within    the    least  frequented 

caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these 

wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  tho'  we  hear  them 

oft: 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves? 

Second  Faun.  'T  is  hard  to  tell: 

I  have  heard  those  more  skilled  in  spirits 

say, 
The  bubbles,  which  the  enchantment  of 

the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale   faint   water-flowers 

that  pave 
The    oozy   bottom   of    clear     lakes    and 

pools, 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and 

float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noontide  kindles  thro'  the  woven 

leaves; 
And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery 

air, 
The  which    they  breathed   within    those 

lucent  domes, 
Ascends   to   flow  like   meteors  thro'   the 

night, 
They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  head- 
long speed, 
And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide 

in  fire 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 
First  Faun.      If  such   live   thus,  have 

others  other  lives, 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 
Of     meadow    flowers,    or    folded    violets 

deep, 
Or  on  their  dying  odors,  when  they  die, 
Or  in  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew? 
Second  Faun.      Ay,  many  more  which 

we  may  well  divine. 
But,   should  we  stay  to   speak,  noontide 

would  come, 
And  thwart   Silenus   find    his  goats   un 

drawn, 


2SO 


PR  OME  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely 

songs 
Of    fate,    and    chance,    and    God,    and 

Chaos  old, 
And  Love,  and  the  chained  Titan's  \vo- 

ful  doom, 
And  how    he  shall  be    loost,  and  make 

the  earth 
One     brotherhood:      delightful     strains 

which  cheer 
Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 
To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 

SCENE  III.— A  Pinnacle  of  Rock 
among  Mountains.  Asia  and 
Panthea. 

Panthea.     Hither  the  sound  has  borne 

us  —  to  the  realm 
Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 
Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm, 
Whence  the  oracular  vapor  is  hurled  up 
Which  lonely  men    drink  wandering    in 

their  youth, 
And  call  truth,   virtue,  love,  genius,   or 

joy, 
That    maddening    wine    of    life,    whose 

dregs  they  drain 
To  deep  intoxication;    and  uplift, 
Like     Maenads    who    cry    loud,     Evoe ! 

Evoe  ! 
The    voice    which    is    contagion    to    the 

world. 
Asia.     Fit  throne   for  such  a  power  ! 

Magnificent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou,   Earth  !     And  if 

thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still, 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should 

be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down   and  worship  that  and 

thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adoreth:    Wonder- 
ful! 
Look,     sister,    ere     the    vapor    dim     thy 

brain : 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky, 
With  azure  waves  which   burst   in   silver 

light, 
Some  Indian  vale.      Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 


The    peak  whereon  we    stand,   midway, 

around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark    and  blooming 

forests, 
Dim  twilight-lawns,  and  stream-illumined 

caves, 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wander- 
ing mist; 
And   far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving 

mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sun-like  radiance  fling 
The    dawn,    as    lifted    Ocean's    dazzling 

spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water- 
drops. 
The  vale   is  girdled  with    their  walls,  a 

howl 
Of    cataracts    from    their    thaw  -  cloven 

ravines, 
Satiates  the   listening  wind,  continuous, 

vast, 
Awful    as    silence.     Hark !    the    rushing 

snow  ! 
The    sun-awakened    avalanche !     whose 

mass, 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered 

there 
Flake    after    flake,    in    heaven  -  defying 

minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some 

great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  moun- 
tains now. 
Panthea.     Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of 

mist  is  breaking 
In    crimson    foam,   even  at  our   feet !    it 

rises 
As    Ocean    at    the    enchantment    of    the 

moon 
Round    foodless    men    wreckt    on    some 

oozy  isle. 
Asia.      The    fragments    of    the    cloud 

are  scattered  up; 
The    wind    that    lifts    them     disentwines 

my  hair; 
Its  billows   now  sweep   o'er  mine   eyes; 

my  brain 
Grows  dizzy;     I  see    thin  shapes  within 

the  mist. 
Panthea.     A  countenance  with  beckon- 
ing smiles:   there  burns 


PR  OMF.  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


381 


An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks  ! 

Another      and      another :      hark !      they 

SCENE  IV.— The  Cave  of 

speak  ! 

Demogorgon.     Asia  and  Panthea. 

Song  of  Spirits. 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Panthea.     What  veiled  form   sits    on 

Down,  down  ! 

that  ebon  throne? 

Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 

Asia.     The  veil  has  fallen. 

Through  the  cloudy  strife 

Panthea.            I  see  a  mighty  darkness 

Of  Death  and  of  Life; 

Filling  the  seat  of   power,   and  rays    of 

Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 

gloom 

Of  things  which  seem  and  are 

Dart  round,  as   light   from  the  meridian 

Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

sun, 

Down,  down  ! 

Ungazed   upon   and    shapeless;     neither 

While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

limb, 

Down,  down  ! 

Nor   form,  nor  outline;    yet  we  feel  it  is 

As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 

A  living  Spirit. 

As  the  lightning  the  vapor, 

Demogorgon.     Ask  what  thou  would'st 

As  a  weak  moth  the  taper; 

know. 

Death,  despair;    love,  sorrow; 

Asia.     What  canst  thou  tell? 

Time  both:   to-day,  to-morrow; 

Demogorgon.                    All  things  thou 

As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 

dar'st  demand. 

Down,  down  ! 

Asia.     Who  made  the   living  world? 

Demogorgon.                  God. 

Through  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Asia.                                  Who  made  all 

Down,  down  ! 

That  it  contains?    thought,  passion,  rea- 

Where the  air  is  no  prism, 

son,  will, 

And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 

Imagination? 

And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 

Demogorgon.        God:    Almighty  God. 

The  radiance  of   Heaven, 

Asia.     Who  made  that  sense  which, 

Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given, 

when  the  winds  of  spring 

Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 

Down,  down  ! 

Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone, 

Fills   the    faint    eyes   with    falling    tears 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep 

which  dim 

Down,  down  ! 

The  radiant  looks  of  unbewailing  flowers, 

Like  veiled  lightning  asleep, 

And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 

Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 

When  it  returns  no  more? 

The  last  look  Love  remembers, 

Demogorgon.                  Merciful  God. 

Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 

Asia.     And  who  made  terror,  madness, 

On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines, 

crime,  remorse, 

A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 

Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain 

Down,  down  ! 

of  things, 

To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee; 

Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one  reels 

Down,  down  ! 

Under  the  load  towards  the  pit  of  death; 

With  the  bright  form  beside  thee; 

Abandoned   hope,  and  love  that  turns  to 

Resist  not  the  weakness, 

hate; 

Such  strength  is  in  meekness 

And  self-contempt,  bitterer  to  drink  than 

That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 

blood; 

Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 

Pain,  whose  unheeded  and  familiar  speech 

The  snake-like  Doom  coiled  underneath 

Is  howling,  and   keen   shrieks,  day  after 

his  throne 

day; 

By  that  alone. 

And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  Hell? 

282 


PR  OME  THE  US    UA  \B  O  UND. 


Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia.     Utter  his  name  :  a  world  pining 

in  pain 
Asks  but  his  name  :   curses  shall  drag  him 

down. 
Demogorgon.      He  reigns. 
Asia.  I  feel,  I  know  it:   who? 

Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia.     Who  reigns?     There  was  the 

Heaven  and  Earth  at  first, 
And  Light  and  Love;    then  Saturn,  from 

whose  throne 
Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow:   such  the 

state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his 

sway, 
As  the   calm   joy  of   flowers   and   living 

leaves 
Before   the   wind    or    sun    has   withered 

them 
And  semivital  worms;   but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge, 

power, 
The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the 

thought 
Which    pierces    this    dim    universe    like 

light, 
Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love; 
For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.     Then 

Prometheus 
Gave  wisdom,  which  is  strength,  to  Jupi- 
ter, 
And  with  this  law  alone,  "  Let  man  be 

free," 
Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide 

Heaven. 
To   know  nor   faith,  nor    love,  nor  law; 

to  be 
Omnipotent  but  friendless  is  to  reign; 
And  Jove  now  reigned;    for  on  the  race 

of  man 
First    famine,  and    then    toil,    and    then 

disease, 
Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen 

before, 
Fell;     and     the     unseasonable     seasons 

drove 
With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire, 
Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain 

caves : 
And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants  he 

Si'llt, 

And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 


Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war. 
So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  they  raged. 
Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legionea 

hopes 
Which     sleep     within     folded     Elysian 

flowers, 
Nepenthe,     Moly,     Amaranth,     fadeless 

blooms, 
That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rain- 
bow wings 
The  shape  of  Death;   and  Love  he  sent 

to  bind 
The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 
Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human 

heart; 
And  he  tamed  fire  which,  like  some  beast 

of  prey, 
Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 
The  frown  of  man;    and  tortured  to  his 

will 
Iron  and   gold,  the  slaves   and  signs  of 

power, 
And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest 

forms 
Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the 

waves. 
He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created 

thought, 
Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe; 
And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth 

and  heaven, 
Which  shook,  but  fell  not;    and  the  har- 
monious mind 
Poured  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song; 
And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 
Until  it  walkt,  exempt  from  mortal  care, 
Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet 

sound; 
And    human    hands   first     mimickt   and 

then  moekt, 
With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its 

own, 
The  human  form,  till  marble  grew  divine; 
And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men 

see 
Reflected  in  their  race,  behold,  and  perish. 
He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and 

springs, 
And   Disease   drank   and   slept.       Death 

grew  like  sleep. 
He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 
Of  the  wide-wandering  stars;    and   how 

the  sun 


PR  OME  '2  HE  US    I  'A  '13  O  UND. 


2«3 


Changes  his  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 
The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her 

broad  eye 
Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea : 
He   taught    to   rule,    as    life    directs  the 

•  limbs, 
The     tempest-winged     chariots     of     the 

Ocean, 
And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities 

then 
Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like 

columns  flowed 
The   warm   winds,   and    the    azure    ether 

shone, 
And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were 

seen. 
Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 
Prometheus  gave  to  man,  for  which  he 

hangs 
Withering    in   destined    pain:     but   who 

rains  down 
Evil,    the    immedicable    plague,    which, 

while 
Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  God 
And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on 
The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of 

earth, 
The  outcast,  the  abandoned,  the  alone? 
Not   Jove :    while   yet    his    frown   shook 

heaven,  ay  when 
His  adversary  from  adamantine  chains 
Curst     him,   he    trembled     like    a   slave. 

Declare 
Who  is  his  master?     Is  he  too  a  slave? 
Demogorgon.     All  spirits  are  enslaved 

which  serve  things  evil : 
Thou  knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 
Asia.     Whom  called'st  thou  God? 
Demogorgon.  I  spoke  but  as  ye 

speak, 
For  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 
Asia.     Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave? 
Demogorgon.  If  the  abysm 

Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets.   .   .   But  a 

voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless; 
For    what    would    it    avail    to    bid    thee 

gaze 
On  the  revolving  world?     What  to  bid 

speak 
Fate,     Time,     Occasion,     Chance,     and 

Change?     To  these 
All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love. 


Asia.     So    much  I  askt    before,    and 

my  heart  gave 
The   response   thou   hast  given;    and  of 

such  truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand;    and  do  thou  answer 

me 
As  mine  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it 

know 
That  which    I    ask.      Prometheus    shall 

arise 
Plenceforth    the    sun    of    this    rejoicing 

world : 
When  shall  the  destined  hour  arrive? 
Demogorgon.  Behold ! 

Asia.       The    rocks    are    cloven,    and 

through  the  purple  night 
I    see    cars    drawn    by    rainbow-winged 

steeds 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds:   in  each 

there  stands 
A     wild-eyed     charioteer    urging    their 

flight. 
Some    look    behind,    as    fiends    pursued 

them   there, 
And  yet  I  see  no   shapes  but   the  keen 

stars : 
Others,   with   burning   eyes,    lean   forth, 

and  drink 
With  eager   lips  the  wind   of  their  own 

speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And    now,    even     now,    they  claspt    it. 

Their  bright  locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair:   they 

all 
Sweep  onward. 

Demogorgon.     These  are  the  immortal 

Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits 

for  thee. 
Asia.     A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  coun- 
tenance 
Checks    its   dark    chariot   by  the   craggy 

gulf. 
Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  charioteer, 
Who   art   thou?     Whither   wouldst   thou 

bear  me?     Speak  ! 
Spirit.      I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 
More  dread  than   is  my  aspect :   ere  yon 

planet 
Has    set,    the    darkness    which    ascends 

with  me 


2S4 


PR  OME THE  US   UNB O UND. 


Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  king- 
less  throne. 
Asia.      What  meanest  thou? 
Panthea.  That  terrible  shadow 

floats 
Up    from   its    throne,   as  may  the    lurid 

smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
Lo  !   it   ascends  the  car;    the  coursers  fly 
Terrified  :   watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

Asia.  Thus  I  am  answered : 

strange  ! 
Panthea.     See,  near  the  verge,  another 
chariot  stays; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  fire, 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculp- 
tured rim 
Of  d  ficate  strange    tracery;    the  young 

spirit 
That   guides  it    has    the    dove-like    eyes 

of  hope; 
How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul  !  as 

light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lamp- 
less  air. 

Spirit. 
My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning, 

They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 

And  when  the  red  morning  is  brightning 

They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam; 

They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness 

I  deem, 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire:    and  their   speed  makes  night 
kindle; 
I  fear:    they  outstrip  the  typhoon; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon: 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labors  at  noon  : 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

SCENE  V.  — The  Car  Pauses  within 
a  Cloud  on  the  Top  of  a  snowy 
Mountain.  Asia,  Panthea,  and  the 
Spirit  ok  the  Hour. 

Spirit. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morn- 
ing 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire; 

But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warn- 
ing 


That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than 

fire : 
They    shall    drink    the    hot    speed    of 

desire  ! 
Asia.     Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils, 
but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 

Spirit.  Alas!   it  could  not. 

Panthea.     Oh  Spirit !   pause,  and  tell 
whence  is  the  light 
Which  fills  the  cloud?  the  sun  is  yet  un- 
risen. 
Spirit.     The  sun    will    rise  not   until 
noon.      Apollo 
|   Is   held  in  heaven  by  wonder;    and  the 

light 
!   Which  fills  this  vapor,  as  the  aerial  hue 
!   Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water, 
Plows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 

Panthea.  Yes,  I  feel  — 

Asia.      What   is   it   with   thee,   sister? 

Thou  art  pale. 
Panthea.      How  thou  art  changed!      I 
dare  not  look  on  thee; 
I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 
The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.      Some  good 

change 
Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 
Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.     The  Nereids 

tell 
That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 
Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise    and  thou  didst 

stand 
Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 
j   Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea, 
j   Among    the    zEgean    isles,    and    by    the 

shores 
I   Which    bear    thy  name;    love,    like    the 

atmosphere 
:   Of  the  sun's  lire  filling  the  living  world, 
i   Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and 

heaven 
1    And    the    deep    ocean    and    the     sunless 

caves 
■   And    all    that    dwells   within  them;    till 

grief  cast 
!    Eclipse    upon    the    soul    from    which    it 
came : 
Such  art  thou  now;    nor  is  it  I  alone, 
'   Thy    sifter,    thy    companion,    thine    own 
chosen  one, 
But    the   whole    world    which    seeks    thy 
sympathy. 


PR  OME  THE  US  UNB  O  UND. 


285 


Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which 

speak  the  love 
Of  all  articulate  beings?     Feclest    thou 

not 
The  inanimate  winds  enamoured  of  thee? 

List !     (Music.) 
Asia.       Thy  words  are  sweeter    than 

aught  else  but  his 
Whose   echoes  they  are :   yet  all  love  is 

sweet, 
Given   or  returned.      Common   as    light 

is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining 

air, 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God : 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 
As  I  am  now ;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings, 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

Panthea.  List !   Spirits  speak. 

Voice  in  the  Air,  singing. 
Life  of  Life  !   thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the    breath    between 

them; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 
Make    the   cold   air  fire;    then  screen 

them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Thro'    the   vest  which   seems   to  hide 
them; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Thro'  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever  ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes   are  clad  with  bright- 
ness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing  ! 


Asia. 
My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 
Which,    like    a    sleeping    swan,    doth 
float 

j  Upon    the    silver    waves    of    thy    sweet 
singing; 
And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 
Beside  a  helm  conducting  it, 
;   Whilst   all  the   winds   with    melody  are 
ringing. 
It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever, 
Upon  that  many-winding  river, 
Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 
A  paradise  of  wildernesses  ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a   sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading 
sound : 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 
In  music's  most  serene  dominions; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy 
heaven. 
And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 
Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But,    by    the    instinct    of    sweet    music 
driven ; 
Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 
By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 
Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 
The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  and  on  the  waves 

doth  move, 
Harmonizing    this   earth   with   what   we 
feel  above. 

We  have  past  Age's  icy  caves, 
And    Manhood's     dark    and    tossing 
waves, 
I  And  Youth's  smooth   ocean,  smiling  to 
betray : 
Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 
Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through   Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner 
day; 
A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers, 
Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 
And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 
Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
'   Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
I  And  rest,  having  beheld;    somewhat  like 
i  thee; 


386 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


Which  walk  upon  the   sea,  and    chant 
melodiously ! 

END    OF   THE    SECOND    ACT. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  Heaven.  Jupiter  on  his 
Throne  ;  Thetis  and  the  other  Deities 
assembled. 

Jupiter.     Ye  congregated  powers  of 

heaven,  who  share 
The  glory  and  the  strength  of   him   ye 

serve, 
Rejoice  !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 
All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me;  alone 
The    soul     of     man,   like    unextinguisht 

fire, 
Yet   burns   towards   heaven    with    fierce 

reproach,  and  doubt, 
And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  prayer, 
Hurling    up    insurrection,    which    might 

make 
Our    antique    empire    insecure,    though 

built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear; 
And  tho'  my  curses  thro'  the  pendulous 

air, 
Like  snow  on  herbless  peaks,  fall  flake 

by  flake, 
And  cling  to  it;   tho'  under   my  wrath's 

night 
It  climbs  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step, 
Which    wound    it,    as   ice  wounds    un- 

sandalled  feet, 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery, 
Aspiring,  unreprest,  yet  soon  to  fall: 
Even    now    have    I    begotten   a   strange 

wonder, 
That  fatal  child,  the  terror  of  the  earth, 
Who   waits    but   till    the    destined    hour 

arrive, 
Bearing     from     Demogorgon's     vacant 

throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 
Which    clothed   that   awful   spirit    unbe- 

held, 
To  redescend,  and  trample  out  the  spark. 

Pour  forth  heaven's  wine,  Idrean  Gany- 
mede, 


And  let  it  fill  the  daedal  cups  like  fire, 
And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine 
Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise, 
As   dew   from   earth  under  the  twilight 

stars: 
Drink  !  be  the  nectar  circling  thro'  your 

veins 
The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 
Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 
Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with 

me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity ! 
WThen    thou    didst    cry,     "  Insufferable 

might  ! 
God !       Spare    me !     I    sustain   not    the 

quick  flames, 
The  penetrating  presence;    all  my  being, 
Like  him  whom  the  Numidian  seps  did 

thaw 
Into  a  dew  with  poison,  is  dissolved, 
Sinking    thro'    its    foundations:"    even 

then 
Two   mighty  spirits,    mingling,   made  a 

third 
Mightier   than   either,  which,   unbodied 

now, 
Between   us  floats,  felt,  although  unbe- 

held, 
Waiting  the  incarnation,  which  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Griding  the  winds?)  from  Demogorgon's 

throne. 
Victory  !  victory  !     Feel'st  thou  not,  O 

world, 
The  earthquake  of  his  chariot  thunder- 
ing up 
Olympus  ? 

[  The  Car  of  the  Hour  arrives. 
DEMOGORGON  descends,  and  moves 
towards  the  Throne  <?/*  Jupiter. 

Awful  shape,  what  art  thou? 

Speak ! 
Demogorgon.     Eternity.     Demand  no 

direr  name. 
Descend,     and     follow    me     down     the 

abyss. 
I   am  thy  child,  as   thou   wert   Saturn's 

child; 
Mightier  than  thee:   and  we  must  dwell 

togethe* 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


287 


Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  light- 
nings not. 
The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain, 
Or  reassume,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee: 
Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  't  is  the  destiny 
Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  are 

dead, 
Put  forth  thy  might. 

Jupiter.  Detested  prodigy  ! 

Even    thus   beneath    the    deep   Titanian 

prisons 
I  trample  thee  !  thou  lingerest? 

Mercy  !  mercy  ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite  !     Oh, 
That  thou  wouldst  make  mine  enemy  my 

judge, 
Even  where  he  hangs,  seared  by  my  long 

revenge, 
On  Caucasus !    he  would   not  doom   me 

thus. 
Gentle,  and   just,    and    dreadless,  is    he 

not 
The  monarch  of  the  world?     What  then 

art  thou? 
No  refuge  !  no  appeal ! 

Sink  with  me  then, 
We  too  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of 

ruin, 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  fight, 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire, 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless 

void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me, 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered,  and 

the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai!  Ai! 
The  elements  obey  me  not.     I  sink 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  for  ever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory  !     Ai,  Ai ! 

SCENE  II.  —The  Mouth  of  a  great 
River  in  the  Island  Atlantis. 
Ocean  is  discover ea  reclining  near  the 
Shore ;  Apollo  stands  beside  him. 

Ocean.     He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath 

his  conquerors  frown? 
Apollo.     Aye,    when    the    strife    was 

ended  which  made  dim 


The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars, 
The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 
With   sanguine  light,  through   the  thick 

ragged  skirts 
Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell : 
Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony, 
Which,    from    a    rent    among    the    fiery 

clouds, 
Burns    far    along    the    tempest-wrinkled 

deep. 
Ocean.     He  sunk  to   the   abyss?     To 

the  dark  void? 
Apollo.     An  eagle  so  caught  in  some 

bursting  cloud 
On  Caucasus,  his  thunder-baffled  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whirlwind,  and  his  eyes 
Which  gazed  on  the  undazzling  sun,  now 

blinded 
By  the  white   lightning,  while   the   pon- 
derous hail 
Beats    on    his    struggling     form,    which 

sinks  at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 
Ocean.      Henceforth     the     fields     of 

Heaven-reflecting  sea 
Which    are    my    realm,   will  heave,   un- 
stained with  blood, 
Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains 

of  corn 
Swayed  by  the  summer  air  ;    my  streams 

will  flow 
Round    many-peopled     continents,    and 

round 
Fortunate   isles;    and    from  their  glassy 

thrones 
Blue    Proteus    and    his    humid    nymphs 

shall  mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The  floating  bark  of  the  light-laden  moon 
With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's 

crest, 
Borne   down   the   rapid   sunset's   ebbing 

sea; 
Tracking   their   path  no   more  by  blood 

and  groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice 
Of  slavery   and   command;    but    by  the 

light 
Of    wave-reflected    flowers,  and   floating 

odors, 
And  music   soft,  and    mild,   free,   gentle 

voices, 
And  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 


288 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


Apollo.     And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the 
deeds  which  make 

My  mind  obscure  with  sorrow,  as  eclipse 

Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide.     But  list,  I 
hear 

The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young 
Spirit 

That  sits  i'  the  morning  star. 

Ocean.  Thou  must  away; 

Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when 
farewell : 

The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now 
to  feed  it 

With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 

Which    stand    for    ever    full     beside   my 
throne. 

Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea, 

Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind- 
like stream, 

Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  stream- 
ing hair 

With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower 
crowns, 

Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's 
joy. 

[A  sound  of  naves  is  heard. 

It  is  the   unpastured   sea  hungering   for 
calm. 

Peace,    monster;    I  come    now.      Fare- 
well. 
Apollo.  Farewell. 


SCENE  III. —  Caucasus.  Prometheus, 

Hercules,  Ione,  the  Earth,  Spirits, 

Asia,  ^w^Panthea,  borne  in  the  Car 

with  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 

Hercules     unbinds     Prometheus, 

who  descends. 

Hercules.        Most      glorious      among 
spirits,  thus  doth  strength 
To  wisdom,  courage,   and  long-suffering 

love, 
And  thee,   who   art  the   form   they   ani- 
mate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

Prometheus.  Thy  gentle  words 

Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  de- 
sired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life, 
Shadow  of  beauty  unbeheld :    and  ye, 


Fair  sister  nymphs,  who  made  long  years 

of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  thro'  your  love  and 

care : 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.     There  is 

a  cave, 
All     overgrown    with     trailing     odorous 

plants, 
Which   curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves 

and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald;   and  a 

fountain 
Leaps  in    the   midst  with  an  awakening 

sound. 
From    its    curved    roof    the    mountain's 

frozen  tears 
Like   snow,  or    silver,  or  long  diamond 

spires, 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubt- 
ful light : 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving   air, 
Whispering  without  from    tree   to   tree, 

and  birds, 
And   bees;    and    all    around    are    mossy 

seats, 
And   the    rough   walls  are   clothed  with 

long  soft  grass; 
A  simple   dwelling,  which   shall  be  our 

own; 
Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and 

change, 
As  the  world   ebbs   and  flows,  ourselves 

unchanged. 
What  can  hide  man  from  mutability? 
And  if  ye  sigh,  then   I  will  smile;    and 

thou, 
Ione,     shalt    chant    fragments     of    sea- 
music, 
Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 
The   tears  she  brought,  which  yet   were 

sweet  to  shed. 
We  will  entangle  buds   and   flowers  and 

beams 
Which  twinkle  on  the   fountain's   brim, 

and  make 
Strange    combinations    out    of    common 

things, 
Like  human  babes   in  their   brief  inno- 
cence ; 
And    we    will    search,    with    looks    and 

words  of  love, 
For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than 

the  last. 


FRO. ME  THE  US   UXBOUND. 


2S9 


Our  unexhausted  spirits  ;    and  like   lutes 
foucht    by  the    skill    of  the  enamoured 

wind, 
Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new, 
.From    difference    sweet    where    discord 

cannot  be  ; 
And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed 

winds, 
Which    meet     from     all     the     points    of 

heaven,  as  bees 
From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds, 
At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera, 
The  echoes  of  the  human  world,  which 

tell 
Of    the    low    voice   of   love,   almost  un- 
heard, 
And    dove-eyed    pity's    murmured   pain, 

and  music, 
Itself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 
That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now 

free  ; 
And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first, 
Then     radiant,     as    the     mind,     arising 

bright 
From    the    embrace   of   beauty,    whence 

the  forms 
Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  cast 

on  them 
The  gathered  rays  which  are  reality, 
Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 
Of  Fainting,  Sculpture,  and  rapt  Poesy, 
And  arts,  tho'  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 
The  wandering  voices   and   the  shadows 

these 
Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 
Of  that  best  worship,  love,  by  him   and 

us 
Given   and  returned  ;    swift  shapes   and 

sounds,  which  grow 
More   fair   and  soft   as   man   grows  wise 

and  kind, 
And,  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall: 
Such    virtue    has    the    cave    and    place 

around. 
[  Turning  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 
For  thee,   fair   Spirit,   one   toil   remains. 

lone, 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which   Pro- 
teus old 
Made    Asia's    nuptial    boon,    breathing 

within  it 
A    voice  to  be  accomplisht,    and  which 

thou 


Didst    hide    in    grass   under   the   hollow 

rock. 
lone.     Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more 

loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy   sisters,   this  is  the  mystic 

shell; 
See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light: 
Looks  it   not   like  lulled   music  sleeping 

there? 
Spirit.      It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest 

shell  of  Ocean: 
Its  sounds  must  be  at  once  both  sweet 

and  strange. 
Prometheus.       Go,     borne    over     the 

cities   of   mankind 
On     whirlwind-footed     coursers:      once 

again 
Outspeed    the    sun    around    the    orbed 

world  ; 
And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling 

air, 
Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 
Loosening  its  mighty  music  :   it  shall  be 
As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes: 

then 
Return  ;    and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our 

cave. 
And  thou,  O,  Mother  Earth  !  — 

The  Earth.  I  hear,  I  feel  ; 

Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs 

down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves;   't  is  life,  't  is 

joy, 
And    thro'  my    withered,    old,    and    icy 

frame 
The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots 

down 
Circling.       Henceforth    the    many    chil- 
dren fair 
Folded     in     my     sustaining     arms  ;     all 

plants, 
And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow- 
winged, 
And    birds,    and   beasts,    and    fish,    and 

human  shapes, 
Which  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my 

wan  bosom, 
I    Draining    the    poison    of    despair,    shall 

take 
I   And  interchange  swe-^t  nutriment  ;  to  me 
|   Shall  they  become  like  sister-antelopes 


290 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


By  one  fair  dam,  snow-white,  and  swift 

as  wind, 
Nurst     among    lilies     near   a    brimming 

stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall 

float 
Under  the  stars  like  balm:   night-folded 

flowers 
Shall    suck    unwithering    hues    in    their 

repose : 
And  men   and  beasts   in  happy  dreams 

shall  gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its 

joy: 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of 

her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a 

mother 
Folding  her  child,  says,  "  Leave  me  not 

again." 
Asia.     O    mother !    wherefore    speak 

the  name  of  death? 
Cease    they    to    love,    and    move,    and 

breathe,  and  speak, 
Who  die? 

The  Earth.  It  would  avail  not  to 

reply : 
Thou   art  immortal,   and  this   tongue  is 

known 
But  to  the  uncommunicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live 

call  life: 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted:   and  mean- 
while 
In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 
With     rainbow  -  skirted     showers,      and 

odorous   winds, 
And    long    blue    meteors    cleansing    the 

dull  night, 
And  the  life-kindling  shafts  of  the  keen 

sun's 
All-piercing  bow,   and  the  dew-mingled 

ruin 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence 

mild, 
Shall    clothe   the   forests  and  the   fields, 

ay,  even 
The     crag-built    deserts    of    the    barren 

deep, 
With   ever-living  leaves,  and   fruits,  and 

flowers. 
And  thou  !   There  is  a  cavern  where   my 

spirit 


Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst  thy 

pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  who  did 

inhale  it 
Became   mad   too,    and    built    a    temple 

there, 
And    spoke,    and    were    oracular,    and 

lured 
The    erring    nations    round    to    mutual 

war, 
And   faithless   faith,   such  as  Jove   kept 

with  thee  ; 
Which  breath  now  rises,  as  amongst  tall 

weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods 

around  ; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent 

vine, 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild, 
And     budding,     blown,     or     odor-faded 

blooms 
Which    star    the    winds    with    points    of 

colored  light, 
As    they    rain    thro'    them,    and    bright 

golden  globes 
Of   fruit,  suspended  in  their  own  green 

heaven, 
And  thro'  their  veined  leaves  and  amber 

stems 
The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid 

bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  clew, 
The     drink     of     spirits :     and     it    circles 

round, 
Like   the   soft  waving  wings  of   noonday 

dreams, 
Inspiring  calm  and  happy  thoughts,  like 

mine, 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.    This  cave  is 

thine. 
Arise  !     Appear  ! 

[./  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness 
of  a  winged  child. 

This  is  my  torch-bearer; 
Who  let  his  lamp   out   in   old  time  with 

gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  he  kindled  it  anew 
With     love,     which     is     as     fire,     sweet 

daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.     Run, 

wayward, 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


291 


And   guide    this    company    beyond    the 

peak 
Of  Bacchic  Nysa,  Maenad-haunted  moun- 
tain, 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers, 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  glassy 

lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying, 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale, 
Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 
Wherever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves, 
The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above, 
Distinct  with  column,   arch,   and    archi- 
trave, 
And  palm-like  capital,  and  over-wrought, 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxitelean  shapes,  whose  marble  smiles 
Fill  the  husht  air  with  everlasting  love. 
It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 
Thy     name,     Prometheus;      there     the 

emulous  youths 
Bore  to  thy  honor  thro'  the  divine  gloom 
The  lamp  which  was  thine  emblem;  even 

as  those 
Who  bear  the  untransmitted  torch  of  hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life, 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this  far  goal  of  Time.     Depart,  fare- 
well. 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Forest.  In  the 
Background  a  Cave.  Prome- 
theus, Asia,  Panthea,  Ione,  and 
the  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 

font'.      Sister,  it  is    not  earthly :    how 

it  glides 
Under    the    leaves !    how    on    its    head 

there  burns 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  whose  emerald 

beams 
Are  twined  with  its   fair  hair!  how,  as 

it  moves, 
The   splendor  drops  in   flakes  upon   the 

grass  ! 
Knowest  thou  it? 

Panthea.  It  is  the  delicate  spirit 

That    guides     the     earth    thro'    heaven. 

From  afar 
The  populous  constellations  call  that  light 
The  loveliest  of  the  planets;    and   some- 
times 


It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea, 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 
Or   walks    thro'    fields    or    cities    while 

men  sleep, 
Or  o'er  the  mountain  tops,  or  down  the 

rivers, 
Or  thro'  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as 

now, 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.     Before  Jove 

reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 
Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the  liquid  light 
Out   of  her  eyes,    for    which    it    said    it 

thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made  its  childish  confidence,  and  told 

her 
All  it    had    known    or  seen,   for  it    saw 

much, 
Yet    idly    reasoned  what    it    saw;    and 

called  her  — 
For  whence  it  sprung  it   knew  not,  nor 

do  I  — 
Mother,  dear  mother. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  {running  to 

Asia).     Mother,  dearest  mother; 
May   I    then    talk    with    thee  as    I   was 

wont  ? 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms, 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of 

joy? 
May  I  then  play  beside    thee  the  long 

noons, 
When  work  is  none  in   the  bright  silent 

air? 
Asia.       I    love    thee,  gentlest  being, 

and  henceforth 
Can    cherish    thee    unenvied :     speak,    I 

.  p™y : 

Thy  simple   talk  once  solaced,  now  de- 
lights. 
Spirit  of  the  Earth.      Mother,   I   am 
grown  wiser,  tho'  a  child 

Cannot  be  wise  like  thee,  within  this  day; 

And  happier  too;  happier  and  wiser  both. 

Thou    knowest    that   toads,   and  snakes, 
and  loathly  worms, 

And    venomous     and     malicious    beasts, 
and  boughs 

That  bore  ill   berries  in   the  woods,  were 
ever 

An    hindrance    to    my    walks    o'er    the 
green  world : 


292 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


And   that,  among  the  haunts  of   human 

kind, 
Hard  -  featured    men,    or    with    proud, 

angry  looks, 
Or  cold,  staid  gait,  or  false    and   hollow 

smiles, 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance, 
Or  other  such   foul  masks,  with  which  ill 

thoughts 
Hide   that   fair   being  whom    we   spirits 

call  man; 
And  women    too,   ugliest    of    all    things 

evil, 
(Tho'  fair,  even  in  a  world  where  thou 

art  fair, 
When  good  and   kind,  free  and   sincere 

like  thee), 
When  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at 

heart 
To    pass    them,   tho'    they  slept,  and    I 

unseen. 
Well,  my  path   lately   lay   thro'  a   great 

city 
Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it: 
A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate: 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud 

it  shook 
The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more 

sweet 
Than  any  voice  but   thine,    sweetest   of 

all; 
A   long,   long  sound,  as   it  would  never 

end : 
And  all  the  inhabitants  leapt  suddenly 
Out  of-  their   rest,   and  gathered  in   the 

streets, 
Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while 

yet 
rlhe  music  pealed  along.      I  hid  myself 
Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square, 
Where  I  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 
Seen  in  a  wave  under  green  leaves;    and 

soon 
Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 
Of   which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me 

pain, 
Fast  floating  thro'  the  air,  and  fading  still 
Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them;    and 

those 
From  whom  they  past  seemed   mild   and 

lovely  forni-, 
After  some  foul  disguise   had   fallen,  and 

all 


Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  briel 

surprise 
And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 
Went   to   their   sleep    again :    and  when 

the  dawn 
Came,    would'st  thou   think   that  toads, 

and  snakes,  and  efts, 
Could    e'er    be    beautiful?    yet    so    they 

were, 
And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or 

hue : 
All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off : 
I  cannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 
Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  night-shade 

twined, 
I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  down- 
ward 
And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber 

berries, 
With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep 

there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky; 
So,  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy 

changes, 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of 

all. 
Asia.     And   never   will   we   part,   till 

thy  chaste  sister 
Who   guides    the   frozen  and  inconstant 

moon 
Will  look  on  thy  more  warm  and   equal 

light 
Till   her  heart   thaw  like   flakes  of  April 

snow 
And  love  thee. 

Spirit  of  the  Earth.  What;    as 

Asia  loves  Prometheus? 
Asia.      Peace,    wanton,    thou    art    yet 

not  old  enough. 
Think    ye    by    gazing    on    each     other's 

eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interhmar  air? 
Spirit  of  the  Earth.       Nay,    mother, 

while  my  sister  trims  her  lamp 
'T  is  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 

Asia.  Listen;    look  ! 

The  Spirit  ok  the  Hour  enters. 
Prometheus.      We  feel  what  thou  hast 

heard  and  seen:    yet  speak. 
Spirit    of    the    //our.       Soon    as    the 

sound    had  ceast    whose  thunder 

filled 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


293 


The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide 
earth, 

There  was  a  change :  the  impalpable 
thin  air 

And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  trans- 
formed, 

As  if  the  sense  of  love  dissolved  in 
them 

Had  folded  itself  round  the  sphered 
world. 

My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could 
see 

Into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe : 

Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down, 

Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with  lan- 
guid plumes, 

My  coursers  sought  their  birthplace  in 
the  sun, 

Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt 
from  toil 

Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire; 

And  where  my  moonlike  car  will  stand 
within 

A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forms 

Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and  the  Earth,  and 
me, 

And  you  fair  nymphs  looking  the  love 
we  feel,  — 

In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne,  — 

Beneath  a  dome  fretted  with  graven 
flowers, 

Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent 
stone, 

And  open  to  the  bright  and  liquid  sky. 

Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbsenic  snake 

The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will 
mock 

The  flight  from  which  they  find  repose. 
Alas, 

Whither  has  wandered  now  my  partial 
tongue 

When  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would 
hear? 

As  I  have  said  I  floated  to  the  earth : 

It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 

To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be;  I  wander- 
ing went 

Among  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  man- 
kind, 

And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 

Such  mighty  change  as  I  had  felt  within 

Exprest  in  outward  things;  but  soon  I 
lookt, 


And  behold,  thrones  were  kingless,  and 

men  walkt 
One  with  the  other  even  as  spirits  do, 
None    fawned,    none    trampled;     hate, 

disdain,  or  fear, 
Self-love    or    self-contempt,    on    human 

brows, 
No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of 

hell, 
"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here;  " 
None    frowned,    none    trembled,    none 

with  eager  fear 
Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command, 
Until  the  subject  of  the  tyrant's  will 
Became,   worse    fate,  the   abject   of   his 

own, 
Which    spurred    him,   like    an    outspent 

horse,  to  death. 
None    wrought    his    lips  in   truth-entan- 
gling lines 
Which   smiled    the    lie    his   tongue    dis- 
dained to  speak; 
None,  with   firm  sneer,  trod  out   in  his 

own  heart 
The   sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there 

remained 
Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self-consumed, 
And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among 

men, 
Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill; 
None    talkt    that    common,    false,    cold, 

hollow  talk 
Which   makes  the   heart  deny  the  yes  it 

breathes, 
Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 
With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  has  no  name. 
And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and 

kind 
As    the   free    heaven   which   rains    fresh 

light  and  dew- 
On  the  wide  earth,  past;   gentle  radiant 

forms, 
From    custom's    evil    taint    exempt    and 

pure ; 
Speaking    the   wisdom    once  they  could 

not  think, 
Looking  emotions  once   they   feared   to 

feel, 
And    changed    to    all  which    once    they 

dared  not  be, 
Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven; 

nor  pride, 
Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill  shame, 


294 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured 

gall, 
Spoiled  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe, 

love. 

Thrones,  altars,  judgment  -  seats,  and 
prisons;    wherein, 

And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men 
were  borne 

Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and  chains,  and 
tomes 

Of  reasoned  wrong,  glozed  on  by  igno- 
rance, 

Were  like  those  monstrous  and  barbaric 
shapes, 

The  ghosts  of  a  no  more  remembered 
fame, 

Which,  from  their  unworn  obelisks,  look 
forth 

In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 

Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors: 
mouldering  round 

Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and 
priests, 

A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as 
wide 

As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are 
now 

But  an  astonishment;  even  so  the  tools 

And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity, 

Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled 
earth, 

Stand,  not  o'erthrown,  but  unregarded 
now. 

And  those  foul  shapes,  abhorred  by  God 
and  man, 

Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a 
form 

Strange,  savage,  ghastly,  dark  and  ex- 
ecrable, 

Were  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of  the  world; 

And  which  the  nations,  panic-stricken, 
served 

With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long 
hope,  and  love 

Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garland- 
less, 

And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming 
tears, 

Flattering  the  thing  they  feared,  which 
fear  was  hate, 

Frown,  mouldering  fast,  o'er  their  aban- 
doned shrines: 


The  painted  veil,  by  those  who  were, 
called  life, 

Which  mimickt,  as  with  colors  idly 
spread, 

All  men  believed  and  hoped,  is  torn 
aside; 

The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man 
remains 

Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but 
man 

Equal,  unclast,  tribeless,  and  nation- 
less, 

Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the 
king 

Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise:  but 
man 

Passionless;  no,  yet  free  from  guilt  or 
pain, 

Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suffered 
them, 

Nor  yet  exempt,  tho'  ruling  them  like 
slaves, 

From  chance,  and  death,  and  mutability, 

The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  over- 
soar 

The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 

Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 

END    OF   THE   THIRD   ACT. 


ACT     IV. 

Scene.  — A  Part  of  the  Forest  neak 
the  Cave  of  Prometheus.  Pan- 
THEA  and  Ione  are  sleeping;  they 
awaken  gradually  during  the  first 
Song. 

Voice  of  unseen  Spirits. 
The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd, 
To  their  folds  them  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 
Hastes,  in   meteor-eclipsing  array,    and 
they  flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling, 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

A   Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows 
passes  by  confusedly,  singing. 
Here,  oh,  here : 
We  bear  the  bier 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


295 


Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancelled  year  ! 

The  billows  and  fountains 

Spectres  we 

Fresh  music  are  flinging, 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be; 

Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and 

We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

from  sea; 

The  storms  mock  the  mountains 

Strew,  oh,  strew 

With  the  thunder  of  gladness. 

Hair,  not  yew  ! 

But  where  are  ye? 

Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew  ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

lone.     What  .charioteers  are  these  ? 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 

Panthea.                         Where  are  their 

Spread    on    the    corpse  of  the  King  of 

chariots  ? 

Hours  ! 

Semichorus  of  Hours. 

The  voice  of  the  Spirits   of  Air  and  of 

Haste,  oh,  haste  ! 

Earth 

As  shades  are  chased, 

Have  drawn  back  the   figured  curtain 

Trembling,  by  day,  from  heaven's  blue 

of  sleep 

waste. 

Which  covered   our  being  and  darkened 

We  melt  away, 

our  birth 

Like  dissolving  spray, 

In  the  deep. 

From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

A   Voice. 

With  the  lullaby 

In  the  deep  ? 

Of  winds  that  die 

Semichorus  II. 

On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony  ! 

Oh,  below  the  deep. 

loiw. 

Semichorus  I. 

What  dark  forms  were  they? 

An  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 

Panthea. 

Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 

The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray, 

And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother 

With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

slept, 

Raked  together 

Found  the  truth  — 

From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

Semichorus  II. 

lone. 

Worse  than  his  visions  were  ! 

Have  they  past  ? 

Semichorus  I. 

Panthea. 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep; 

They  have  past; 

We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in 

They  outspeeded  the  blast, 

dreams, 

While  'tis  said,  they  are  fled: 

We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and 

lone. 

leap  — 

Whither,  oh,  whither? 

Semichorus  II. 

Panthea. 

As    the    billows    leap    in    the    morning 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

beams  ! 

Voice  of  unseen  Spirits. 

Chorus. 

Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven, 

Weave    the    dance   on   the  floor  of    the 

Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth, 

breeze, 

Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 

Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light, 

They  are  gathered  and  driven 

Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees, 

By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of 

To    check    its   flight    ere    the  cave  of 

glee  ! 

night. 

They  shake  with  emotion, 

They  dance  in  their  mirth. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 

But  where  are  ye  ? 

Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding 
deer, 
And    it    limpt  and  stumbled  with  many 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 

Old  songs  with  new  gladness, 

wounds 

290 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desart 
year. 

But  now,  oh  weave  the  mystic  measure 
Of  music,   and   dance,   and  shapes  of 
light, 
Let  the  Hours,  and  the  spirits  of  might 
and  pleasure, 
Like  the  clouds  and -sunbeams,  unite. 

A   Voice. 

Unite  ! 
Panthea.     See,   where   the   Spirits  of 
the  human  mind 
Wrapt  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  veils, 
approach. 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
We  join  the  throng 
Of  the  dance  and  the  song, 
By    the    whirlwind    of    gladness    borne 
along; 
As  the  flying-fish  leap 
From  the  Indian  deep, 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds,  half  asleep. 

Chorus  of  Hours. 
Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet, 
For  sandals  of  lightning  are  on  your  feet, 
And  your   wings   are   soft   and   swift   as 

thought, 
And   your    eyes    are    as    love    which    is 

veiled  not? 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
We  come  from  the  mind 
Of  human  kind 
Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and    obscene, 
and  blind, 
Now  't  is  an  ocean 
Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion; 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces; 

From  those  skiey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit    watching    your    dance,    ye    happy 
Hours  ! 

From  the  dim  recesses 
Of  woven  caresses, 


Where    lovers    catch  ye    by  your    loose 
tresses; 
From  the  azure  isles, 
Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles, 

Delaying  your  ships  with  her  siren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  Man's  ear  and  eye, 
Rooft  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  his  daedal  wings. 

Years  after  years, 
Through  blood,  and  tears, 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes, 
and  fears; 
We  waded  and  flew, 
And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  hap- 
piness grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm, 

Are  sandalled  with  calm, 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings   is  a  rain   of 
balm; 

And,  beyond  our  eyes, 

The  human  love  lies 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  and  Flours. 
Then   weave   the   web   of    the   mystic 
measure; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends 
of  the  earth, 
Come,   swift  Spirits  of   might  and  of 
pleasure, 
Fill  the  dance  and  the  music  of  mirth, 
As  the  waves   of  a   thousand  streams 

rush  by 
To  an  ocean  of  splendor  and  harmony  ! 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
Our  spoil  is  won, 
Our  task  is  done, 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run; 
Beyond  and  around, 
Or  within  the  bound 
Which    clips    the    world    with    darkness 
round. 

We  '11  pass  the  eyes 
Of  the  starry  skies 


PP  OME  THE  US    UNB  O  UND. 


297 


Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize : 
Death,  Chaos,  and  Night, 
From  the  sound  of  our  flight, 

Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's 
might. 

And  Earth,  Air,  and  Light, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which    drives   round   the   stars   in    their 
fiery  flight; 

And  Love,  Thought,  and  Breath, 

The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  to  wield; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man, 
And  our  work  shall  be  called  the   Pro- 
methean. 

Chorus  of  Hours. 
Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

Semi  chorus  I. 
We,  beyond  heaven,  are  driven  along: 

Semi  chorus  II. 
Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain: 

Semi  chorus  I. 
Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 
With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  new  earth 

and  sea, 
And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven   could 

never  be. 

Scmichorus  II. 
Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright, 
Leading    the  Day   and  outspeeding  the 

With  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect 
light. 

Scmichorus  I. 

We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gather- 
ing sphere, 

Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the 
clouds  appear 

From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love, not  fear. 


Semichorus  II. 
We  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of 

earth, 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change    to    the    music    of     our    sweet 

mirth. 

Chorus  of  Hours  and  Spirits. 
Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song, 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In    leashes,     like    starbeams,     soft    yet 
strong, 
The  clouds  that  are  heavy  with  love's 

sweet  rain. 
Panthea.     Ha  !  they  are  gone  ! 
lone.  Yet  feel  you  no  delight 

From  the  past  sweetness? 

Panthea.  As  the  bare  green  hill 

I  When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  rain, 

Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  sunny 

water 
To  the  unpavilioned  sky  ! 

lone.  Even  whilst  we  speak 

New  notes  arise.     What    is  that    awfui 

sound? 

Panthea.     'T  is  the  deep  music  of  the 

rolling  world 

Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved 

air, 
^Eolian  modulations. 

lone.  Listen  too, 

How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under- 

notes, 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen,  awakening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within 

the  soul, 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crystal 

air 
And  gaze    upon   themselves    within   the 
sea. 
Panthea.      But    see    where    thro'    two 
openings  in  the  forest 
Which  hanging  brandies  overcanopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss  violet-inwoven, 
Have   made  their   path   of  melody,   like 

sisters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet 

in  smiles, 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 
Of    lovely   grief,    a   wood   of   sweet    sad 
thoughts; 


29<S 


PR  OME  THE  US    UNB  0  UND. 


Two    visions    of    strange    radiance    float 

upon 
The  ocean-like   enchantment   of    strong 

sound, 
Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 
Under  the    ground  and  thro'  the  wind- 
less air. 
lone.     I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest 

boat, 
In  which  the  mother  of  the  months    is 

borne 
By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave, 
When    she    upsprings    from    interlunar 

dreams, 
O'er  which  is  curved  an  orblike  canopy 
Of  gentle   darkness,   and   the   hills   and 

woods 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk    airy 

veil, 
Regard   like    shapes    in    an    enchanter's 

glass; 
Its  wheels  are   solid   clouds,    azure   and 

gold, 
Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunderstorm 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 
When  the  sun  rushes  under  it;    they  roll 
And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward 

wind; 
Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant,  white 
Its  countenance,   like   the   whiteness   of 

bright  snow, 
Its    plumes    are    as    feathers    of    sunny 

frost, 
Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind- 
flowing  folds 
Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 
Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white 

light 
Scattered  in  strings;   yet  its  two  eyes  are 

heavens 
Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 
Within    seems    pouring,    as    a    storm    is 

poured 
From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy 

lashes, 
Tempering     the    cold     and     radiant     air 

around, 
With  fire  that   is   not  brightness;    in   its 

hand 
It   sways    a   quivering   moonbeam,    from 

whose  point 
A   guiding    power    directs   the    chariot's 

prow 


Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they 

roll 
Over  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  waves, 

wake  sounds, 
Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 
Panthea.     And  from  the  other  open- 
ing in  the  wood 
Rushes,    with   loud   and  whirlwind  har- 
mony, 
A   sphere,   which   is   as  many   thousand 

spheres, 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and 

light: 
Ten    thousand    orbs    involving    and    in- 
volved, 
Purple  and  azure,  white,  and  green,  and 

golden, 
Sphere  within  sphere;   and  every  space 

between 
Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 
Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lamp- 
less  deep, 
Yet    each    inter-transpicuous,    and    they 

whirl 
Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions, 
Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning, 
And   with    the    force    of    self-destroying 

swiftness, 
Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly  roll  on, 
Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many 

tones, 
Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 
With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 
Grinds   the   bright  brook    into   an   azure 

mist 
Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light; 
And  the  wild  odor  of  the  forest  flowers, 
The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air, 
The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams 
Round    its     intense    yet     self-conflicting 

speed, 
Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 
Which    drowns   the   sense.      Within   the 

orb  itself, 
Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 
Like  to  a  child   o'erwearied   with  sweet 

toil, 
On    its    own    folded    wings,    and    wavy 

hair, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep, 
And  you  can  see  its  little   lips  are  mov- 
ing, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


299 


Amid   the   changing   light   of   their  own 

Was  mortal,  but  not  human;    see,  they 

smiles, 

lie, 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in 

Their    monstrous    works,    and    uncouth 

dream. 

skeletons, 

lone.     'T  is  only  mocking    the    orb's 

Their    statues,   homes   and    fanes;     pro- 

harmony. 

digious  shapes 

Panthea.     And   from  a  star   upon  its 

Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split, 

forehead,  shoot, 

Jammed  in   the   hard,  black  deep;    and 

Like    swords    of    azure    fire,    or    golden 

over  these, 

spears 

The     anatomies     of     unknown     winged 

With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 

things, 

Embleming    heaven    and    earth    united 

And    fishes    which    were    isles   of   living 

now, 

scale, 

Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible 

And     serpents,     bony     chains,     twisted 

wheel 

around 

Which  whirl  as  the   orb  whirls,  swifter 

The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 

than  thought, 

To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their 

Filling  the  abyss  with  sun-like  lightnings, 

last  pangs 

And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  trans- 

Had   crusht  the    iron    crags;    and    over 

verse, 

these 

Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce 

The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 

and  pass, 

Of    earth-convulsing    behemoth,    which 

Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep 

once 

heart; 

Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy 

infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold, 

shores, 

Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems, 

And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth, 

And     caverns     on     crystalline    columns 

Increased   and    multiplied    like    summer 

poised 

worms 

With  vegetable  silver  overspread; 

On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue 

Wells    of    unfathomed    fire,    and    water 

globe 

springs 

Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloke,  and 

Wbence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is 

they 

fed, 

Yelled,    gaspt,    and   were    abolisht;    or 

Whose    vapors    clothe    earth's    monarch 

some  God 

mountain-tops 

Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  past,  and 

With  kingly,  ermine  snow.     The  beams 

cried, 

flash  on 

Be  not !     And  like  my  words  they  were 

And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 

no  more. 

Of  cancelled  cycles;    anchors,  beaks  of 

The  Earth. 

ships; 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the 

Planks     turned     to     marble;       quivers, 

madness  ! 

helms,   and  spears, 

The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting 

And     gorgon-headed     targes,     and    the 

gladness, 

wheels 

The  vaporous  exultation  not  to  be  con- 

Of scythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 

fined  ! 

Of    trophies,    standards,     and     armorial 

Ha!  ha!   the  animation  of  delight 

beasts, 

Which  wraps  me,  like  an  atmosphere 

Round   which  death  laught,    sepulchred 

of  light, 

emblems 

And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its 

Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 

own  wind. 

The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast, 

The  Moon. 

Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 

over 

Happy  globe  of  land  and  air, 

3°° 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


Some  Spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from 
thee, 
Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame, 
And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
With  love,  and  odor,  and  deep  melody 
Thro'  me,  thro'  me  ! 

The  Earth. 

Ha !    ha !    the  caverns  of  my  hollow 
mountains, 

My   cloven    fire-crags,   sound-exulting 
fountains 
Laugh  with  a  vast  and  inextinguishable 
laughter. 

The  oceans,  and  the  deserts,  and  the 
abysses, 

And   the   deep  air's  unmeasured  wil- 
dernesses, 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows, 
echoing  after. 

They   cry    aloud    as    I   do.      Sceptred 
curse, 

Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muffle  round  with  black 
destruction,  sending 

A   solid   cloud    to    rain   hot    thunder- 
stones, 

And    splinter    and    knead     down     my 
children's  bones, 
All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  bat- 
tering and  blending. 

Until  each  crag-like  tower,  and  storied 

column, 
Palace,     and     obelisk,     and     temple 

solemn, 
My    imperial    mountains    crowned    with 

cloud,  and  snow,  and  fire; 
My  sea-like  forests,    every  blade   and 

blossom 
Which  finds   a  grave  or  cradle   in   my 

bosom, 
Were  stampt  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a 

lifeless  mire. 

How  art   thou  sunk,   withdrawn,  cov- 
ered, drunk  up 

By    thirsty   nothing,    as    the    brackish 
cup 
Drained   by  a   desert-troop,  a  little  drop 
for  all; 


And   from    beneath,    around,    within, 

above, 
Filling  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Burst  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven   by 

the  thunder-ball. 

The  Moon. 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 
Is  loosened  into  living  fountains, 
My    solid    oceans    flow,    and    sing,    and 
shine : 
A  spirit  from  my  heart  bursts  forth, 
It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold  bare  bosom :   Oh  !    it  must  be 
thine 

*    On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know 
Green   stalks   burst   forth,  and  bright 
flowers  grow, 

And  living  shapes  upon  my  bosom  move: 
Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air, 
Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there, 

Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dream- 


ing of: 


'T  is  love,  all  love  ! 


The  Earth. 


It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass, 
Through    tangled    roots    and   trodden 

clay  doth  pass, 
Into    the    utmost    leaves    and    delicatest 

flowers; 
Upon  the   winds,    among    the    clouds 

't  is  spread, 
It  wakes  a  life  in  the  forgotten  dead, 
They    breathe    a    spirit     up     from     their 

obscurest  bowers. 

And  like   a  storm  bursting  its  cloudy 

prison 
With    thunder,    and   with    whirlwind, 

has  arisen 
Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined 

being: 
With  earthquake  shock  and  swiftness 

making  shiver 
Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved 

for  ever, 
Till  hate,  and    fear,  and  pain,  light-van- 

quisht  shadows,  fleeing, 


PR  OME  THE  US   UNB  O  UND. 


301 


Leave  Man,    who    was   a  many-sided 

mirror, 
Which  could  distort  to   many  a  shape 
of  error, 
This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  re- 
flecting love; 
Which  over  all  his  kind  as  the  sun's 
heaven 
Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene, 
and  even 
Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and 
life,  doth  move, 

Leave   Man,  even  as   a  leprous  child 

is  left, 
Who    follows    a    sick    beast    to    some 

warm  cleft 


A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey, 
Is  as   a  tempest-winged   ship,   whose 

helm 
Love  rules,  through  waves  which  dare 
not  overwhelm, 
Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its 
sovereign  sway. 

All     things      confess      his     strength. 

Through  the  cold  mass 
Of  marble    and    of    color    his  dreams 

pass; 
Bright   threads  whence   mothers    weave 

the  robes  their  children  wear; 
Language  is  a  perpetual  orphic  song, 
Which   rules  with    dsedal    harmony    a 

throng 


Of   rocks,  through  which  the   might   of  1  Of  thoughts  and  forms,  which  else  sense 


healing  springs  is  poured; 
Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  j 

smile, 
Unconscious,    and    its     mother    fears  | 

awhile 
It  is  a  spirit,  then,  weeps  on  her  child  I 

restored. 

I 
Man,  oh,  not  men  !  a  chain  of  linked  ] 

thought, 
Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not, 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adaman-   j 
tine  stress; 
As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a  tyrant's 

gaze, 
The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of    planets,     struggling    fierce    towards 
heaven's  free  wilderness. 

Man,  one  harmonious  soul  of  many  a 
soul, 

Whose   nature  is  its  own  divine  con- 
trol, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to 
the  sea; 

Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love; 

Labor,    and    pain,   and  grief,  in   life's 
green  grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts;    none  knew  how 
gentle  they  could  be  ! 


less  and  shapeless  were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave;    heaven's 
utmost  deep 

Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock  of 
sheep 
They  pass  before  his  eye,  are  numbered, 
and  roll  on  ! 

The  tempest   is   his  steed,   he    strides 
the  air; 

And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth 
laid  bare, 
Heaven,   hast   thou    secrets?     Man    un- 
veils me;  I  have  none. 

7/fei?  Moon. 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past 
From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A    clinging    shroud  of    solid    frost    and 
sleep; 
And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers, 
Wander  happy  paramours, 
Less  mighty,  but  as   mild  as  those  who 
keep 

Thy  vales  more  deep. 

The  Earth. 


As    the    dissolving    warmth    of    dawn 
may  fold 
His  will,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  !      "  A    half    unfrozen    dew-globe,    green, 


delights 


and  gold, 


And      selfish      cares,     its      trembling  j  And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged 


satellites, 


mist, 


302 


PR  OME  THE  US    UNB  0  UND. 


And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue 

With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 

day, 

Maniac-like  around  thee  move 

Outlives  the  noon,   and  on  the   sun's 

Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride, 

last  ray 

On  thy  form  from  every  side 

Hangs  o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  fire  and 

Like  a  Maenad,  round  the  cup 

amethyst. 

Which  Agave  lifted  up 

In  the  weird  Cadmean  forest. 

The  Moon. 

Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 

I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 

In  the  light  which  is  undying 

Thro'  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 

Of    thine  own    joy,   and  heaven's  smile 

Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 

divine; 

Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space, 

All  suns  and  constellations  shower 

Drinking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power 

Beauty,  majesty,  and  might, 

Which  doth  array  thy  sphere;    thou  pour- 

As  a  lover  or  chameleon 

est  thine 

Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon, 

On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 

The  Earth. 

Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid   of    night, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Which  points  into  the  heavens  dream- 

Glows like  solid  amethyst 

ing  delight, 

Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds, 

Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 

sleep; 

Upon  its  snow. 

As    a    youth    lulled    in    love-dreams 

The  Earth'. 

faintly  sighing, 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 

Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying, 

That  it  should  be  so. 

Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and 

0    gentle   Moon,   the  voice    of    thy  de- 

warmth doth  keep. 

light 

Flails   on   me   like  thy  clear  and   tender 

The  Jlfoon. 

.  Hght 

As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse, 

Soothing  the  seaman,  borne   the  summer 

When  soul   meets  soul   on  lovers'  lips, 

night, 

High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes 

Thro'  isles  for  ever  calm; 

are  dull; 

O     gentle     Moon,     thy    crystal    accents 

So  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 

pierce 

Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 

The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 

Covered;    of    thy   love,  Orb  most  beau- 

Charming   the   tiger  joy,   whose   tramp- 

tiful, 

lings  fierce 

Full,  oh,  too  full  ! 

Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 

Panthea.      I    rise   as    from   a    bath   of 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun 

sparkling  water, 

Brightest  world  of  many  a  one; 

A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks, 

Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 

Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 

With  a  light  which  is  divinest 

lone.                        Ah  me  !   sweet  sister, 

Among  all  the  lamps  of   Heaven 

The   stream   of    sound    has    ebbed    away 

To  whom  life  and  light  is  given; 

from  us, 

I,  thy  crystal  paramour 

And     you    pretend    to    rise    out     of     its 

Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 

wave, 

Like  the  polar  Paradise, 

Because    your  words  fall  like  the  clear, 

Magnet-like  of   lovers'  eyes; 

soft  dew 

I,  a  most  enamoured  maiden 

Shaken    from   a    bathing    wood-nymph's 

Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 

limbs  and  hair. 

PRO  ME  THE  US  UNB  0  UND. 


303 


Panthea.     Peace  !   peace  !     A  mighty 

A   Voice  from  beneath. 

Power,  which  is  as  darkness, 

Or  as  they 

Is  rising  out  of   Earth,  and  from  the  sky 

Whom  we  have  left,   we    change  and 

Is  showered   like  night,  and  from  within 

pass  away. 

the  air 

Demogorgon. 

Bursts,  like  eclipse  which  had  been  gath- 

Ye elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

ered  up 

From   man's   high   mind   even   to  the 

Into  the   pores  of    sunlight :   the  bright 

central  stone 

visions, 

Of  sullen  lead ;  from  Heaven's  star-fretted 

Wherein    the    singing    spirits    rode    and 

domes 

shone, 

To  the  dull  weed  some  sea-worm  bat- 

Gleam like  pale  meteors  thro'  a  watery 

tens  on : 

night. 

A  confused  Voice. 

lone.     There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon 

We  hear  !  thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

mine  ear. 

Demogorgon. 

Panthea.     An    universal    sound    like 

Spirits,  whose  homes  are  flesh;  ye  beasts 

words:   Oh,  list ! 

and  birds, 

Demogorgon. 

Ye  worms,  and  fish;   ye  living  leaves 

Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul, 

and  buds; 

Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and  harmo- 

Lightning and  wind;  and  ye  untamable 

nies, 

herds, 

Beautiful  orb  !  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 

Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's 

The  love  which  paves  thy  path  along 

solitudes:  — 

the  skies: 

A   Voice. 

The  Earth. 

Thy  voice    to   us  is  wind  among  still 

I  hear :  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 

woods. 

Demogorgon. 

Demogorgon. 

Thou,  Moon,  which  gazest  on  the  nightly 

Man,  who  wert    once  a   despot    and    a 

Earth 

slave; 

With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver;   a  decay; 

Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the 

A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

swift  birth 

Thro'  the   dim   night   of    this   immor- 

Of birds,  is   beauty,   love,   calm,  har- 

tal day: 

mony  : 

All. 

The  Moon. 

Speak :    thy  strong  words  may  never 

I  hear :    I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee  ! 

pass  away. 

Demogorgon. 

Demogorgon. 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars,  Daemons  and 

This  is  the   day,  which   down  the  void 

Gods, 

abysm 

Ethereal  Dominations,  who  possess 

At    the    Earth-born's    spell    yawns    for 

Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Heaven's  despotism, 

Beyond  Heaven's  constellated  wilder- 

And   Conquest     is     dragged     captive 

ness  : 

through  the  deep : 

A   Voice  from  above. 

Love,   from  its  awful   throne   of  patient 

Our  great  Republic  hears,  we  are  blest, 

power 

and  bless. 

In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last   giddy 

Demogorgon. 

hour 

Ye  happy  dead,  whom  beams  of   bright- 

Of dead  endurance,  from  the  slippery, 

est  verse 

steep, 

Are  clouds  to  hide,  not   colors  to  por- 

And narrow  verge  of    crag-like    agony, 

tray, 

springs 

Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 

And   folds    over    the    world    its    healing 

Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered  — 

wings. 

3°4 


NOTE    ON  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endur- 
ance, 
These   are  the  seals  of    that    most    firm 
assurance 
Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's 
strength; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should 
free 
The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with 
his  length; 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope   thinks  in- 
finite; 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or 
night; 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipo- 
tent; 

To   love,    and   bear;    to   hope  till  Hope 
creates 

From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contem- 
plates; 
Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  re- 
pent; 

This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 

Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful    and 
free; 

This  is  alone    Life,    Joy,    Empire,    and 
Victory. 


NOTE  ON   PROMETHEUS  UN- 
BOUND, BY  MRS.  SHELLEY. 

On  the  I2th  of  March  181S  Shelley 
quitted  England,  never  to  return.  His 
principal  motive  was  the  hope  that  his 
health  would  be  improved  by  a  milder 
climate;  he  suffered  very  much  during 
the  winter  previous  to  his  emigration, 
and  this  decided  his  vacillating  purpose. 
In  December  181 7  he  had  written  from 
Marlow  to  a  friend,  saying: 

"  My  health  has  been  materially  worse. 
My  feelings  at  intervals  are  of  a  deadly 
and  torpid  kind  or  awakened  to  such  a  state 
of  unnatural  and  keen  excitement  that, 
only  to  instance  the  organ  of  sight,  I  find 
the  very  blades  of  grass  and  the  boughs 
of  distant  trees  present  themselves  to  mc 
with  microscopic  distinctness.     Towards 


evening  I   sink    into  a  state   of  lethargy 
I   and  inanimation,    and   often  remain   for 
hours  on    the    sofa    between    sleep    and 
I   waking,  a  prey  to  the  most  painful  irrita- 
:  bility  of  thought.     Such,  with  little  inter- 
I   mission,  is  my  condition.     The  hours  de- 
voted to  study  are  selected  with  vigilant 
I   caution  from  among  these  periods  of  en- 
durance.     It  is  not  for  this  that   I  think 
I  of  travelling  to  Italy,  even  if  I  knew  that 
!   Italy  would  relieve  me.      But  I  have  ex- 
j   perienced  a  decisive  pulmonary  attack; 
and  although   at   present    it    has    passed 
i   away  without  any  considerable  vestige  of 
j   its  existence,  yet  this  symptom  sufficiently 
I  shows  the  true  nature  of  my  disease  to  be 
consumptive.      It  is  to  my  advantage  that 
;   this  malady  is  in  its  nature  slow,  and,  if 
I   one  is  sufficiently  alive  to  its  advances,  is 
]   susceptible  of  cure  from  a  warm  climate. 
In  the  event  of  its  assuming  any  decided 
J  shape,  itzoould  be  my  duty  to  go  to  Italy 
;   without  delay.     It  is  not   mere    health, 
!  but  life,  that  I  should  seek,  and  that   not 
for  my  own  sake — I   feel   I   am  capable 
of  trampling  on  all  such  weakness;    but 
for  the  sake  of  those  to  whom  my  life 
may  be  a  source  of  happiness,  utility,  se- 
curity, and  honor,  and  to  some  of  whom 
my  death,  might  be  all  that  is  the  reverse." 
In  almost  every  respect  his  journey  to 
Italy  was  advantageous.      He  left  behind 
friends   to   whom   he   was  attached;    but 
cares  of   a  thousand  kinds,  many  spring- 
!   ing  from  his  lavish  generosity,  crowded 
\   round  him  in  his  native  country,  and,  ex- 
I   cept   the   society  of  one  or  two   friends, 
he  had   no  compensation.     The   climate 
caused  him  to  consume  half  his  existence 
j   in  helpless  suffering.      His  dearest  pleas- 
ure, the  free  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  of 
Nature,  was  marred  by  the  same  circum- 
|   stance. 

lie  went  direct  to  Italy,  avoiding  even 
Paris,  and  did  not  make  any  pause  ti!l  he 
arrived  at  Milan.  The  first  aspect  of 
Italy  enchanted  Shelley;  it  seemed  a  gar- 
1  den  of  delight  placed  beneath  a  clearer 
and  brighter  heaven  than  any  he  had  lived 
\  under  before.  1  le  wrote  long  descriptive 
letters  during  the  first  year  of  his  resi- 
dencc  in  Italy,  which,  as  compositions,  are 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  and  show 


NOTE   ON  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


305 


how  truly  he  appreciated  and  studied  the 
wonders  of  Nature  and  Art  in  that  divine 
land. 

The  poetical  spirit  within  him  speedily 
revived  with  all  the  power  and  with  more 
than  all  the  beauty  of  his  first  attempts. 
He  meditated  three  subjects  as  the  ground- 
work for  lyrical  dramas.  One  was  the 
story  of  Tasso;  of  this  a  slight  fragment 
of  a  song  of  Tasso  remains.  The  other  was 
one  founded  on  the  ' '  Book  of  Job, ' '  which 
he  never  abandoned  in  idea,  but  of  which 
no  trace  remains  among  his  papers.  The 
third  was  the  "Prometheus  Unbound." 
The  Greek  tragedians  were  now  his  most 
familiar  companions  in  his  wanderings, 
and  the  sublime  majesty  of  /Eschylus  filled 
him  with  wonder  and  delight.  The  father 
of  Greek  tragedy  does  not  possess  the 
pathos  of  Sophocles,  nor  the  variety  and 
tenderness  of  Euripides;  the  interest  on 
which  he  founds  his  dramas  is  often  ele- 
vated above  human  vicissitudes  into  the 
mighty  passions  and  throes  of  gods  and 
demi-gods:  such  fascinated  the  abstract 
imagination  of  Shelley. 

We  spent  a  month  at  Milan,  visiting 
the  Lake  of  Como  during  that  interval. 
Thence  we  passed  in  succession  to  Pisa, 
Leghorn,  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  Venice, 
Este,  Rome,  Naples,  and  back  again  to 
Rome,  whither  we  returned  early  in  March 
1S19.  During  all  this  time  Shelley  medi- 
tated the  subject  of  his  drama,  and  wrote 
portions  of  it.  Other  poems  were  com- 
posed during  this  interval,  and  while  at 
the  Bagni  di  Lucca  he  translated  Plato's 
Symposium.  But,  though  he  diversified 
his  studies,  his  thoughts  centred  in  the 
Pro'netheus.  At  last,  when  at  Rome, 
during  a  bright  and  beautiful  Spring,  he 
gave  up  his  whole  time  to  the  composition. 
The  spot  selected  for  his  study  was,  as  he 
mentions  in  his  preface,  the  mountainous 
ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla.  These 
are  little  known  to  the  ordinary  visitor  at 
Rome.  He  describes  them  in  a  letter, 
with  that  poetry  and  delicacy  and  truth 
of  description  which  render  his  narrated 
impressions  of  scenery  of  unequalled 
beauty  and  interest. 

At  first  he  completed  the  drama  in  three 
acts.     R  was  not  till  several  months  after, 


when  at  Florence,  that  he  conceived  that 
a  fourth  act,  a  sort  of  hymn  of  rejoicing 
in  the  fulfilment  of  the  prophecies  with 
regard  to  Prometheus,  ought  to  be  added 
to  complete  the  composition. 

The  prominent  feature  of  Shelley's 
theory  of  the  destiny  of  the  human  species 
was  that  evil  is  not  inherent  in  the  system 
of  the  creation,  but  an  accident  that  might 
be  expelled.  This  also  forms  a  portion 
of  Christianity :  God  made  earth  and 
man  perfect,  till  he,  by  his  fall, 

"  Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe." 

Shelley  believed  that  mankind  had  only 
to  will  that  there  should  be  no  evil,  and 
there  would  be  none.  R  is  not  my  part 
in  these  Notes  to  notice  the  arguments 
that  have  been  urged  against  this  opinion, 
but  to  mention  the  fact  that  he  entertained 
it,  and  was  indeed  attached  to  it  with  fer- 
vent enthusiasm.  That  man  could  be  so 
perfectionized  as  to  be  able  to  expel  evil 
from  his  own  nature,  and  from  the  greater 
part  of  the  creation,  was  the  cardinal 
point  of  his  system.  And  the  subject  he 
loved  best  to  dwell  on  was  the  image  of 
One  warring  with  the  Evil  Principle,  op- 
pressed not  only  by  it,  but  by  all  —  even 
the  good,  who  were  deluded  into  consid- 
ering evil  a  necessary  portion  of  human- 
ity: a  victim  full  of  fortitude  and  hope 
and  the  spirit  of  triumph,  emanating  from 
a  reliance  in  the  ultimate  omnipotence  of 
Good.  Such  he  had  depicted  in  his  last 
poem,  when  he  made  Laon  the  enemy 
and  the  victim  of  tyrants.  He  now  took  a 
more  idealized  image  of  the  same  subject. 
He  followed  certain  classical  authorities 
in  figuring  Saturn  as  the  good  principle, 
Jupiter  the  usurping  evil  !>ne,  and  Pro- 
metheus as  the  regenerator,  who,  unable 
to  bring  mankind  back  to  primitive  inno- 
cence, used  knowledge  as  a  weapon  to 
defeat  evil,  by  leading  mankind,  beyond 
the  state  wherein  they  are  sinless  through 
ignorance,  to  that  in  which  they  are  vir- 
tuous through  wisdom.  Jupiter  punished 
the  temerity  of  the  Titan  by  chaining  him 
to  a  rock  of  Caucasus,  and  causing  a 
vulture  to  devour  his  still-renewed  heart. 
There  was  a  prophecy  afloat  in  heaven 


3o6 


NOTE   ON  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


portending  the  fall  of  Jove,  the  secret  of 
averting  which  was  known  only  to  Prome- 
theus; and  the  god  offered  freedom  from 
torture  on  condition  of  its  being  commu- 
nicated to  him.  According  to  the  myth- 
ological story,  this  referred  to  the  offspring 
of  Thetis,  who  was  destined  to  be  greater 
than  his  father.  Prometheus  at  last  bought 
pardon  for  his  crime  of  enriching  man- 
kind with  his  gifts,  by  revealing  the  proph- 
ecy. Hercules  killed  the  vulture,  and  set 
him  free;  and  Thetis  was  married  to  Pe- 
leus,  the  father  of  Achilles. 

Shelley  adapted  the  catastrophe  of  this 
story  to  his  peculiar  views.  The  son 
greater  than  his  father,  born  of  the  nup- 
tials of  Jupiter  and  Thetis,  was  to  dethrone 
Evil,  and  bring  back  a  happier  reign  than 
that  of  Saturn.  Prometheus  defies  the 
power  of  his  enemy,  and  endures  centu- 
ries of  torture;  till  the  hour  arrives  when 
Jove,  blind  to  the  real  event,  but  darkly 
guessing  that  some  great  good  to  him- 
self will  flow,  espouses  Thetis.  At  the 
moment,  the  Primal  Power  of  the  world 
drives  him  from  his  usurped  throne,  and 
Strength,  in  the  person  of  Hercules, 
liberates  Humanity,  typified  in  Prome- 
theus, from  the  tortures  generated  by 
evil  done  or  suffered.  Asia,  one  of  the 
Oceanides,  is  the  wife  of "  Prometheus  — 
she  was,  according  to  other  mythological 
interpretations,  the  same  as  Venus  and 
Nature.  When  the  benefactor  of  man- 
kind is  liberated,  Nature  resumes  the 
beauty  of  her  prime,  and  is  united  to  her 
husband,  the  emblem  of  the  human  race, 
in  perfect  and  happy  union.  In  the 
fourth  Act,  the  Poet  gives  further  scope 
to  his  imagination,  and  idealizes  the 
forms  of  creation — -such  as  we  know 
them,  instead  of  such  as  they  appeared 
to  the  Greeks.  Maternal  Earth,  the 
mighty  parent,  is  superseded  by  the 
Spirit  of  the  Earth,  the  guide  of  our 
planet  through  the  realms  of  sky;  while 
his  fair  and  weaker  companion  and  at- 
tendant, the  Spirit  of  the  Moon,  receives 
bliss  from  the  annihilation  of  Evil  in  the 
superior  sphere. 

Shelley  develops  more  particularly  in 
the  lyrics  of  this  drama  his  abstruse  and 
imaginative   theories  with   regard   to  the 


creation.  It  requires  a  mind  as  subtle  and 
penetrating  as  his  own  to  understand  the 
mystic  meanings,  scattered  throughout  the 
poem.  They  elude  the  ordinary  reader 
by  their  abstraction  and  delicacy  of  dis- 
|  tinction,  but  they  are  far  from  vague.  It 
was  his  design  to  write  prose  metaphysical 
essays  on  the  nature  of  Man,  which  would 
have  served  to  explain  much  of  what  is 
obscure  in  his  poetry;  a  few  scattered 
fragments  of  observations  and  remarks 
alone  remain.  He  considered  these 
philosophical  views  of  Mind  and  Nature 
to  be  instinct  with  the  intensest  spirit  of 
poetry. 

More  popular  poets  clothe  the  ideal 
with  familiar  and  sensible  imagery.  Shel- 
ley loved  to  idealize  the  real  — to  gift  the 
mechanism  of  the  material  universe  with 
a  soul  and  a  voice,  and  to  bestow  such 
also  on  the  most  delicate  and  abstract 
emotions  and  thoughts  of  the  mind. 
Sophocles  was  his  great  master  in  this 
species  of  imagery. 

I  find  in  one  of  his  manuscript  books 
some  remarks  on  a  line  in  the  "  CEdipus 
Tyrannus,"  which  show  at  once  the  criti- 
cal subtlety  of  Shelley's  mind,  and  ex- 
plain his  apprehension  of  those  "  minute 
and  remote  distinctions  of  feeling, whether 
relative  to  external  nature  or  the  living 
beings  which  surround  us,"  which  he 
pronounces,  in  the  letter  quoted  in  the 
note  to  the  "  Revolt  of  Islam,"  to  com- 
prehend all  that  is  sublime  in  man. 

"  In  the  Greek  Shakespeare,  Sopho- 
cles, we  find  the  image, 

IIoAAas  8'  bSoix;  eXOoyra  (^po^TiSo?  n\dvoi>;  : 

a  line  of  almost  unfathomable  depth  of 
poetry;  yet  how  simple  are  the  images 
in  which  it  is  arrayed  ! 

'  Coming   to  many  ways  in   the  wanderings   of 
careful  thought.' 

If  the  words  6Soi>?  and  TrAavoi?  had  not  been 
used,  the  line  might  have  been  ex- 
plained in  a  metaphorical  instead  of  an 
absolute  sense,  as  we  say  '  ways  and 
means,'  and  'wanderings'  for  error  and 
confusion.  Put  they  meant  literally  paths 
or  roads,  such  as  we  tread  with  our  feet; 


NOTE    ON  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


3c7 


and  wanderings,  such  as  a  n.an  makes 
when  he  loses  himself  in  a  desert,  or 
roams  from  city  to  city  — as  (Edipus,  the 
speaker  of  this  verse,  was  destined  to 
wander,  blind  and  asking  charity.  What 
a  picture  does  this  line  suggest  of  the 
mind  as  a  wilderness  of  intricate  paths, 
wide  as  the  universe,  which  is  here  made 
its  symbol ;  a  world  within  a  world  which 
he  who  seeks  some  knowledge  with  re- 
spect to  what  he  ought  to  do  searches 
throughout,  as  he  would  search  the  ex- 
ternal universe  for  some  valued  thing 
which  was  hidden  from  him  upon  its 
surface.'' 

In  reading  Shelley's  poetry,  we  often 
find  similar  verses,  resembling,  but  not 
imitating,  the  Greek  in  this  species  of 
imagery;  for,  though  he  adopted  the 
style,  he  gifted  it  with  that  originality 
of  form  and  coloring  which  sprung  from 
his  own  genius. 

In  the  "Prometheus  Unbound,"  Shel- 
ley fulfils  the  promise  quoted  from  a  letter 
in  the  Note  on  the  "  Revolt  of  Islam."  l 
The  tone  of  the  composition  is  calmer  and 
more  majestic;  the  poetry,  more  perfect  as 
a  whole;  and  the  imagination  displayed, 
at  once  more  pleasingly  beautiful  and 
more  varied  and  daring.  The  description 
of  the  Hours,  as  they  are  seen  in  the  cave 
of  Demogorgon,  is  an  instance  of  this- — - 
it  fills  the  mind  as  the  most  charming 
picture  —  we  long  to  see  an  artist  at  work 
to  brin£  to  our  view  the 


"  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds 
Which   trample   the   dim  winds ;    in  each  there 

stands 
A-  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 


1  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  that 
poem,  it  struck  me  that  the  poet  had  indulged  in 
an  exaggerated  view  of  the  evils  of  restored  des- 
potism;  which,  however  injurious  and  degrading, 
were  less  openly  sanguinary  than  the  triumph  of 
anarchy,  such  as  it  appeared  in  France  at  the 
close  of  the  last  century.  But  at  this  time  a 
book,  "  Scenes  of  Spanish  Life,"  translated  by 
Lieutenant  Crawford  from  the  German  of  Dr. 
Huber,  of  Rostock,  fell  into  my  hands.  The 
account  of  the  triumph  of  the  nriests  and  the 
serviles,  after  the  French  invasion  of  Spain  in 
1823,  bears  a  strong  and  frightful  resemblance  to 
some  of  the  descriptions  of  the  massacre  of  the 
patriots  in  the  "  Revolt  of  Islam." 


And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  claspt  it.    Their  bright 

locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair;  they  all 
Sweep  onward." 

Through  the  whole  poem  there  reigns 
a  sort  of  calm  and  holy  spirit  of  love;  it 
soothes  the  tortured,  and  is  hope  to  the 
expectant,  till  the  prophecy  is  fulfilled, 
and  Love,  untainted  by  any  evil,  becomes 
the  law  of  the  world. 

England  had  been  rendered  a  painful 
residence  to  Shelley,  as  much  by  the  sort 
of  persecution  with  which  in  those  days  all 
men  of  liberal  opinions  were  visited,  and 
by  the  injustice  he  had  lately  endured  in 
the  Court  of  Chancery,  as  by  the  symp- 
toms of  disease  which  made  him  regard 
a  visit  to  Italy  as  necessary  to  prolong 
his  life.  An  exile,  and  strongly  im- 
pressed with  the  feeling  that  the  majority 
of  his  countrymen  regarded  him  with 
sentiments  of  aversion  such  as  his  own 
heart  could  experience  towards  none,  he 
sheltered  himself  from  such  disgusting 
and  painful  thoughts  in  the  calm  retreats 
of  poetry,  and  built  up  a  world  of  his 
own  —  with  the  more  pleasure,  since  he 
hoped  to  induce  some  one  or  two  to 
believe  that  the  earth  might  become 
such,  did  mankind  themselves  consent. 
The  charm  of  the  Roman  climate  helped 
to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  greater  beauty 
than  they  had  ever  worn  before.  And, 
as  he  wandered  among  the  ruins  made 
one  with  Nature  in  their  decay,  or  gazed 
on  the  Praxitelean  shapes  that  throng  the 
Vatican,  the  Capitol,  and  the  palaces  of 
Rome,  his  soul  imbibed  forms  of  love- 
liness which  became  a  portion  of  itself. 
There  are  many  passages  in  the  "  Prome- 
theus," which  show  the  intense  delight 
he  received  from  such  studies,  and  give 
back  the  impression  with  a  beauty  of 
poetical  description  peculiarly  his  own. 
He  felt  this,  as  a  poet  must  feel  when  he 
satisfies  himself  by  the  result  of  his 
labors;  and  he  wrote  from  Rome,  "My 
'Prometheus  Unbound'  is  just  finished, 
and  in  a  month  or  two  I  shad  send  it.  It 
is  a  drama,  with  characters  and  mechan- 


308 


THE   CENCI. 


ism  of  a  kind  yet  unattempted;  and  I 
think  the  execution  is  better  than  any  of 
my  former  attempts." 

I  may  mention,  for  the  information  of 
the  more  critical  reader,  that  the  verbal 
alterations  in  this  edition  of  "Prome- 
theus "  are  made  from  a  list  of  errata 
written  by  Shelley  himself. 


THE  CENCI : 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

DEDICATION. 

TO 
LEIGH  HUNT,  Esq. 

My  dear  Friend  —  I  inscribe  with  your 
name,  from  a  distant  country,  and  after 
an  absence  whose  months  have  seemed 
years,  this  the  latest  of  my  literary  efforts. 

Those  writings  which  I  have  hitherto 
published,  have  been  little  else  than  vis- 
ions which  impersonate  my  own  appre- 
hensions of  the  beautiful  and  the  just.  I 
can  also  perceive  in  them  the  literary  de- 
fects incidental  to  youth  and  impatience; 
they  are  dreams  of  what  ought  to  be,  or 
may  be.  The  drama  which  I  now  pre- 
sent to  you  is  a  sad  reality.  I  lay  aside 
the  presumptuous  attitude  of  an  instruct- 
or, and  am  content  to  paint,  with  such 
colors  as  my  own  heart  furnishes,  that 
which  has  been. 

Had  I  known  a  person  more  highly 
endowed  than  yourself  with  all  that  it 
becomes  a  man  to  possess,  I  had  soli- 
cited for  this  work  the  ornament  of  his 
name.  One  more  gentle,  honorable, 
innocent  and  brave;  one  of  more  exalted 
toleration  for  all  who  do  and  think  evil, 
and  yet  himself  more  free  from  evil;  one 
who  knows  better  how  to  receive,  and 
how  to  confer  a  benefit  though  he  must 
ever  confer  far  more  than  he  can  receive; 
one  of  simpler,  and,  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  word,  of  purer  life  and  manners 
I  never  knew:  and  I  had  already  been 
fortunate  in  friendships  when  your  name 
was  added  to  the  list. 


In  that  patient  and  irreconcilable  en- 
mity with  domestic  and  political  tyranny 
and  imposture  which  the  tenor  of  your 
life  has  illustrated,  and  which,  had  I 
health  and  talents,  should  illustrate  mine, 
let  us,  comforting  each  other  in  our  task, 
live  and  die. 

All  happiness  attend  you  !  Your  affec- 
tionate friend,        Percy  B.  Shelley. 

Rome,  May  29,  1819. 


PREFACE. 

A  Manuscript  was  communicated  to 
me  during  my  travels  in  Italy,  which  was 
copied  from  the  archives  of  the  Cenci 
Palace  at  Rome,  and  contains  a  detailed 
account  of  the  horrors  which  ended  in 
the  extinction  of  one  of  the  noblest  and 
richest  families  of  that  city  during  the 
Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII.,  in  the  year 
1599.  The  story  is,  that  an  old  man 
having  spent  his  life  in  debauchery  and 
wickedness,  conceived  at  length  an  im- 
placable hatred  towards  his  children; 
which  showed  itself  towards  one  daugh- 
ter under  the  form  of  an  incestuous  pas- 
sion, aggravated  by  every  circumstance 
of  cruelty  and  violence.  This  daughter, 
after  long  and  vain  attempts  to  escape 
from  what  she  considered  a  perpetual 
contamination  both  of  body  and  mind, 
at  length  plotted  with  her  mother-in-law 
and  brother  to  murder  their  common 
tyrant.  The  young  maiden,  who  was 
urged  to  this  tremendous  deed  by  an  im- 
pulse which  overpowered  its  horror,  was 
evidently  a  most  gentle  and  amiable  be- 
ing, a  creature  formed  to  adorn  and  be 
admired,  and  thus  violently  thwarted 
from  her  nature  by  the  necessity  of  cir- 
cumstance and  opinion.  The  deed  was 
quickly  discovered,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
most  earnest  prayers  made  to  the  Pope 
by  the  highest  persons  in  Rome,  the 
criminals  were  put  to  death.  The  old 
man  had  during  his  life  repeatedly  bought 
his  pardon  from  the  Pope  for  capital 
crimes  of  the  most  enormous  and  un- 
speakable kind,  at  the  price  of  a  hundred 
thousand  crowns;  the  death  therefore  of 
his  victims  can  scarcely  be  accounted  for 


THE   CEXCI. 


3-9 


by  the  love  of  justice.  The  Pope,  among 
other  motives  for  severity,  probably  felt 
that  whoever  killed  the  Count  Cenci  de- 
prived his  treasury  of  a  certain  and  copi- 
ous source  of  revenue.1  Such  a  story, 
if  told  so  as  to  present  to  the  reader  ail 
the  feelings  of  those  who  once  acted  it, 
their  hopes  and  fears,  their  confidences 
and  misgivings,  their  various  interests, 
passions,  and  opinions,  acting  upon  and 
with  each  other,  yet  all  conspiring  to  one 
tremendous  end,  would  be  as  a  light  to 
make  apparent  some  of  the  most  dark 
and  secret  caverns  of  the  human  heart. 

On  my  arrival  at  Rome  I  found  that 
the  story  of  the  Cenci  was  a  subject  not 
to  be  mentioned  in  Italian  society  with- 
out awakening  a  deep  and  breathless 
interest;  and  that  the  feelings  of  the 
company  never  failed  to  incline  to  a  ro- 
mantic pity  for  the  wrongs,  and  a  pas- 
sionate exculpation  of  the  horrible  deed 
to  which  they  urged  her,  who  has  been 
mingled  two  centuries  with  the  common 
dust.  All  ranks  of  people  knew  the  out- 
lines of  this  history,  and  participated  in 
the  overwhelming  interest  which  it  seems 
to  have  the  magic  of  exciting  in  the  hu- 
man heart.  I  had  a  copy  of  Guido's 
picture  of  Beatrice  which  is  preserved  in 
the  Colonna  Palace,  and  my  servant  in- 
stantly recognized  it  as  the  portrait  of 
La  Cenci. 

This  national  and  universal  interest 
which  the  story  produces  and  has  pro- 
duced for  two  centuries  and  among  all 
ranks  of  people  in  a  great  City,  where 
the  imagination  is  kept  for  ever  active 
and  awake,  first  suggested  to  me  the 
conception  of  its  fitness  for  a  dramatic 
purpose.  In  fact  it  is  a  tragedy  which 
has  already  received,  from  its  capacity 
of  awakening  and  sustaining  the  sympa- 
thy of  men,  approbation  and  success. 
Nothing  remained  as  I  imagined,  but  to 
clothe  it  to  the  apprehensions  of  my 
countrymen  in  such  language  and  action 


1  The  Papal  Government  formerly  took  the 
most  extraordinary  precautions  ajjain-.t  the  pub- 
licity of  facts  which  offer  so  tragical  a  demon- 
stration of  its  own  wickedness  and  weakness:  so 
that  the  communication  of  the  MS.  had  become, 
until  very  lately,  a  matter  of  some  difficulty. 


as  would  bring  it  home  to  their  hearts. 
The  deepest  and  the  sublimest  tragic 
compositions,  King  Lear  and  the  two 
plays  in  which  the  tale  of  CEdipus  is  told, 
were  stories  which  already  existed  in 
tradition,  as  matters  of  popular  belief 
and  interest,  before  Shakespeare  and 
Sophocles  made  them  familiar  to  the 
sympathy  of  all  succeeding  generations 
of  mankind. 

This  story  of  the  Cenci  is  indeed  emi- 
nently fearful  and  monstrous :  anything 
like  a  dry  exhibition  of  it  on  the  stage 
would  be  insupportable.  The  person 
who  would  treat  such  a  subject  must 
increase  the  ideal,  and  diminish  the  actual 
horror  of  the  events,  so  that  the  pleasure 
which  arises  from  the  poetry  which  exists 
in  these  tempestuous  sufferings  and  crimes 
may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  moral  deformity  from  which 
they  spring.  There  must  also  be  nothing 
attempted  to  make  the  exhibition  subser- 
vient to  what  is  vulgarly  termed  a  moral 
purpose.  The  highest  moral  purpose 
aimed  at  in  the  highest  species  of  the 
drama,  is  the  teaching  the  human  heart, 
through  its  sympathies  and  antipathies, 
the  knowledge  of  itself;  in  proportion  to 
the  possession  of  which  knowledge,  every 
human  being  is  wise,  just,  sincere,  toler- 
ant and  kind.  If  dogmas  can  do  more, 
it  is  well :  but  a  drama  is  no  fit  place  for 
the  enforcement  of  them.  Undoubtedly, 
no  person  can  be  truly  dishonored  by 
the  act  of  another;  and  the  fit  return  to 
make  to  the  most  enormous  injuries  is 
kindness  and  forbearance,  and  a  resolu- 
tion to  convert  the  injurer  from  his  dark 
passions  by  peace  and  love.  Revenge, 
retaliation,  atonement,  are  pernicious 
mistakes.  If  Beatrice  had  thought  in 
this  manner  she  would  have  been  wiser 
and  better;  but  she  would  never  have 
been  a  tragic  character :  the  few  whom 
such  an  exhibition  would  have  interested, 
could  never  have  been  sufficiently  inter- 
ested for  a  dramatic  purpose,  from  the 
want  of  finding  sympathy  in  their  inter- 
est among  the  mass  who  surround  them. 
It  is  in  the  restless  and  anatomizing  casu- 
istry with  which  men  seek  the  justifi- 
cation of  Beatrice,  yet  feel  that  she  has 


31 


THE    CENCL 


done  what  needs  justification;  it  is  in  the 
superstitious  horror  with  which  they  con- 
template alike  her  wrongs  and  their  re- 
venge, that  the  dramatic  character  of 
what  she  did  and  suffered,  consists. 

I  have  endeavored  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble to  represent  the  characters  as  they 
probably  were,  and  have  sought  to  avoid 
the  error  of  making  them  actuated  by  my 
own  conceptions  of  right  or  wrong,  false 
or  true  :  thus  under  a  thin  veil  converting 
names  and  actions  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury into  cold  impersonations  of  my  own 
mind.  They  are  represented  as  Catho- 
lics, and  as  Catholics  deeply  tinged  with 
religion.  To  a  Protestant  apprehension 
there  will  appear  something  unnatural  in 
the  earnest  and  perpetual  sentiment  of 
the  relations  between  God  and  men 
which  pervade  the  tragedy  of  the  Cenci. 
It  will  especially  be  startled  at  the  com- 
bination of  an  undoubting  persuasion  of 
the  truth  of  the  popular  religion  with 
a  cool  and  determined  perseverance  in 
enormous  guilt.  But  religion  in  Italy  is 
not,  as  in  Protestant  countries,  a  cloak 
to  be  worn  on  particular  days;  or  a  pass- 
port which  those  who  do  not  wish  to  be 
railed  at  carry  with  them  to  exhibit;  or  a 
gloomy  passion  for  penetrating  the  im- 
penetrable mysteries  of  our  being,  which 
terrifies  its  possessor  at  the  darkness  of 
the  abyss  to  the  brink  of  which  it  has 
conducted  him.  Religion  coexists,  as  it 
were,  in  the  mind  of  an  Italian  Catholic, 
with  a  faith  in  that  of  which  all  men 
have  the  most  certain  knowledge.  It  is 
interwoven  with  the  whole  fabric  of  life. 
It  is  adoration,  faith,  submission,  peni- 
tence, blind  admiration;  not  a  rule  for 
moral  conduct.  It  has  no  necessary  con- 
nection with  any  one  virtue.  The  most 
atrocious  villain  may  be  rigidly  devout, 
and  without  any  shock  to  established 
faith,  confess  himself  to  be  so.  Religion 
pervades  intensely  the  whole  frame  of 
society,  and  is  according  to  the  temper 
ot  the  mind  which  it  inhabits,  a  passion, 
a  persuasion,  an  excuse,  a  refuge;  never 
a  check.  Cenci  himself  built  a  chapel 
in  the  court  of  his  Palace,  and  dedicated 
it  to  St.  Thomas  the  Apostle,  and  es- 
tablished   masses    for    the    peace   of    his 


soul.  Thus  in  the  first  scene  of  the 
fourth  act  Lucretia's  design  in  exposing 
herself  to  the  consequences  of  an  expos- 
tulation with  Cenci  after  having  adminis- 
tered the  opiate,  was  to  induce  him  by  a 
feigned  tale  to  confess  himself  before 
death;  this  being  esteemed  by  Catholics 
as  essential  to  salvation;  and  she  only 
relinquishes  her  purpose  when  she  per- 
ceives that  her  perseverance  would  ex- 
pose Beatrice  to  new  outrages. 

I  have  avoided  with  great  care  in  writ- 
ing this  play  the  introduction  of  what  is 
commonly  called  mere  poetry,  and  I 
imagine  there  will  scarcely  be  found  a 
detached  simile  or  a  single  isolated  de- 
scription, unless  Beatrice's  description  of 
the  chasm  appointed  for  her  father's 
murder  should  be  judged  to  be  of  that 
nature.1 

In  a  dramatic  composition  the  imagery 
and  the  passion  should  interpenetrate  one 

j  another,  the  former  being  reserved  simply 
for  the  full  development  and  illustration 
of  the  latter.      Imagination  is  as  the  im- 

!  mortal  God  which  should  assume  flesh 
for  the  redemption  of  mortal  passion.     It 

\  is  thus  that  the  most  remote  and  the  most 
familiar    imagery    may    alike    be    fit   for 

j  dramatic  purposes  when  employed  in  the 
illustration  of  strong  feeling,  which  raises 
what  is  low,  and  levels  to  the  apprehen- 
sion that  which  is  lofty,  casting  over  all 
the  shadow  of  its  own  greatness.  In 
other  respects,  I  have  written  more  care- 
lessly; that  is,  without  an  over- fastidious 
and  learned  choice  of  words.  In  this  re- 
spect I  entirely  agree  with  those  modern 
critics  who  assert  that  in  order  to  move 
men  to  true  sympathy  we  must  use  the 
familiar  language  of  men,  and  that  our 
great  ancestors  the  ancient  English  poets 
are  the  writers,  a  study  of  whom  might 
incite  us  to  do  that  for  our  own  age  which 
they  have  done  for  theirs.  But  it  must 
be  the  real  language  of  men  in  general 
and  not  that  of  any  particular  class  to 
whose     society    the    writer    happens     to 

1  An  idea  in  this  speech  was  suggested  by  a 
most  sublime  passage  in  "  El  Purgatorio  de  San 
Patricio"  of  Calderon ;  the  onlv  plagiarism 
which  I  have  intentionally  committed  in  the 
whole  piece. 


THE    CENCI. 


3" 


belong.  So  much  for  what  I  have  at- 
tempted; I  need  not  be  assured  that 
success  is  a  very  different  matter;  particu- 
larly for  one  whose  attention  has  but 
newly  been  awakened. to  the  study  of 
dramatic  literature. 

I  endeavored  whilst  at  Rome  to  observe 
such  monuments  of  this  story  as  might  be 
accessible  to  a  stranger.  The  portrait  of 
Beatrice  at  the  Colonna  Palace  is  admir- 
able as  a  work  of  art :  it  was  taken  by 
Guido  during  her  confinement  in  prison. 
But  it  is  most  interesting  as  a  just  repre- 
sentation of  one  of  the  loveliest  speci- 
mens of  the  workmanship  of  Nature. 
There  is  a  fixed  and  pale  composure  upon 
the  features:  she  seems  sad  and  stricken 
down  in  spirit,  yet  the  despair  thus  ex- 
pressed is  lightened  by  the  patience  of 
gentleness.  Her  head  is  bound  with 
folds  of  white  drapery  from  which  the 
yellow  strings  of  her  golden  hair  escape, 
and  fall  about  her  neck.  The  moulding 
of  her  face  is  exquisitely  delicate;  the 
eyebrows  are  distinct  and  arched :  the 
lips  have  that  permanent  meaning  of 
imagination  and  sensibility  which  suffer- 
ing has  not  repressed  and  which  it  seems 
as  if  death  scarcely  could  extinguish. 
Her  forehead  is  large  and  clear;  her  eyes 
which  we  are  told  were  remarkable  for 
their  vivacity,  are  swollen  with  weeping 
and  lustreless,  but  beautifully  tender  and 
serene.  In  the  whole  mien  there  is  a 
simplicity  and  dignity  which  united  with 
her  exquisite  loveliness  and  deep  sor- 
row are  inexpressibly  pathetic.  Beatrice 
Cenci  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those 
rare  persons  in  whom  energy  and  gentle- 
ness dwell  together  without  destroying 
one  another:  her  nature  was  simple  and 
profound.  The  crimes  and  miseries  in 
which  she  was  an  actor  and  a  sufferer 
are  as  the  mask  and  the  mantle  in  which 
circumstances  clothed  her  for  her  imper- 
sonation on  the  scene  of  the  world. 

The  Cenci  Palace  is  of  great  extent; 
and  though  in  part  modernized,  there  yet 
remains  a  vast  and  gloomy  pile  of  feudal 
architecture  in  the  same  state  as  during 
he  dreadful  scenes  which  are  the  subject 
of  this  tragedy.  The  Palace  is  situated 
in  an  obscure  corner  of   Rome,  near  the 


quarter  of  the  Jews,  and  from  the  upper 
windows  you  see  the  immense  ruins  of 
Mount  Palatine  half  hidden  under  their 
profuse  overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is 
a  court  in  one  part  of  the  Palace  (per- 
haps that  in  which  Cenci  built  the  Chapel 
to  St.  Thomas),  supported  by  granite 
columns  and  adorned  with  antique  friezes 
of  fine  workmanship,  and  built  up,  ac- 
cording to  the  ancient  Italian  fashion, 
with  balcony  over  balcony  of  open-work. 
One  of  the  gates  of  the  Palace  formed  of 
immense  stones  and  leading  through  a 
passage,  dark  and  lofty  and  opening  into 
gloomy  subterranean  chambers,  struck 
me  particularly. 

Of  the  Castle  of  Petrella,  I  could  ob- 
tain no  further  information  than  that 
which  is  to  be  found  in  the  manuscript. 


THE    CENCI. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONM. 

Count  Francesco  Cenci. 
Giacomo,      )     ,  •    ~ 
Bernardo,  J     fusions. 
Cardinal  Camillo. 
Orsino,  a  Prelate. 
Savella,  the  Pope's  Legate. 
Oi.impio.  )    A 
Marzio,   (  *—*>»"- 
Andrea,  Servant  to  Cenci. 
Nobles  —  Judges  —  Guards  —  Servants. 
Lucretia,  Wife  of  Cetvci,  and  Step-mother 
of  his  children. 
Beatrice,  his  Daughter. 
The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Rome,  but  changes 
during   the  fourth  Act  to    Petrella,   a   Castle 
among  the  Apulian  Apennines. 
Time.     During  the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in 
the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  Count  Cenci,  and  Cardinal 

Camillo. 

Camillo.     That  matter  of  the  murder 

is  husht  up 
If  you  consent  to  yield  his  Holiness 
Your   fief  that   lies  beyond  the   Pincian 

gate.— 


THE    CENCL 


It  needed  all  my  interest  in  the  conclave 
To  bend  him  to  this  point :   he   said  that 

you 
Bought  perilous  impunity  with  your  gold; 
That  crimes  like   yours   if  once  or  twice 

compounded 
Enriched  the  Church,  and  respited  from 

hell 
An  erring  soul  which  might  repent  and 

live :  — 
But  that  the  glory  and  the  interest 
Of  the  high  throne  he  fills,  little  consist 
With  making  it  a  daily  mart  of  guilt 
As  manifold  and  hideous  as  the  deeds 
Which  you  scarce  hide  from  men's   re- 
volted eyes. 
Cenci.     The  third  of    my  possessions 

—  let  it  go  ! 
Ay,   I    once    heard    the    nephew  of    the 

Pope 
Had  sent  his  architect  to  view  the  ground, 
Meaning  to  build  a  villa  on  my  vines 
The   next  time   I   compounded  with  his 

uncle : 
I  little  thought  he  should  outwit  me  so  ! 
Henceforth  no  witness  —  not  the  lamp  — 

shall  see 
That  which  the  vassal  threatened  to  di- 
vulge 
Whose  throat  is  choked  with  dust  for  his 

reward. 
The  deed  he  saw  could   not  have  rated 

higher 
Than  his  most  worthless  life  :  —  it  angers 

me  ! 
Respited  me   from   Hell: — so  may  the 

Devil 
Respite    their  souls  from    Heaven.     No 

doubt  Pope  Clement, 
And  his  most  charitable  nephews,  pray 
That  the  Apostle  Peter  and  the  saints 
Will    grant    for  their  sake    that    I    long 

enjoy 
Strength,  wealth,  and  pride,  and  lust,  and 

length  of  days 
Wherein  to  act  the  deeds  which  are  the 

stewards 
Of  their  revenue.  — But  much  yet  remains 
To  which  they  show  no  title. 

Camilla.  Oh,  Count  Cenci ! 

So  much  that  thou  mightst  honorably  live 
And   reconcile    thyself    with    thine    own 

heart 


And  with  thy  God,  and  with  the  offended 
world. 

How  hideously  look  deeds  of    lust  and 
blood 

Thro'    those   snow  white   and  venerable 
hairs  !  — 

Your  children  should  be  sitting  round  you 
now, 

But  that  you  fear  to  read  upon  their  looks 

The  shame  and  misery  you  have  written 
there. 

Where    is    your  wife?      Where    is    your 
gentle  daughter? 

Methinks  her  sweet  looks,  which  make 
all  things  else 

Beauteous  and  glad,  might  kill  the  fiend 
within  you. 

Why  is  she  barred  from  all  society 

But  her  own  strange  and  uncomplaining 
wrongs? 

Talk    with    me,    Count, — you    know    I 
mean  you  well. 

I  stood  beside  your  dark  and  fiery  youth 

WTatching    its    bold    and  bad   career,  as 
men 

Watch    meteors,    but    it    vanisht    not  — 
I  markt 

Your    desperate    and    remorseless    man- 
hood ;    now 

Do  I  behold  you  in  dishonored  age 

Charged    with    a    thousand    unrepented 
crimes. 

Yet  I  have  ever  hoped  you  would  amend, 

And  in  that   hope   have  saved  your  life 
three  times. 
Cenci.     For  which  Aldobrandino  owes 
you  now 

My  fief  beyond  the  Pincian.  —  Cardinal, 

One  thing,  I  pray  you,  recollect  hence- 
forth, 

And  so  we  shall  converse  with   less  re- 
straint. 

A  man  you  knew  spoke  of  my  wife  and 
daughter  — 

He    was    accustomed    to    frequent    my 
house; 

So   the   next  day  his  wife  and   daughter 
came 

And   asked  if    I    had  seen    him;    and    t 
smiled : 

I  think  they  never  saw  him  any  more. 
( 'amillo.      Thou   execrable    man,    be- 
ware !  — 


THE    CENCI. 


3*3 


Cenci.  Of  thee? 

Nay  this  is  idle :  —  We  should  know  each 

other. 
As   to   my  character  for   what   men   call 

crime 
Seeing  I  please  my  senses  as  I  list, 
And  vindicate    that   right  with   force  or 

guile, 
It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 
If  I  discuss  it  with  you.      I  may  speak 
Alike    to    you    and    my    own    conscious 

heart  — 
For  you  give  out  that  you  have   half   re- 
formed me, 
Therefore   strong  vanity  will    keep    you 

silent 
If  fear  should  not;   both  will,  I  do  not 

doubt. 
All  men  delight  in  sensual  luxury, 
All  men  enjoy  revenge;    and  most  exult 
Over  the  tortures  they  can  never  feel  — 
Flattering  their  secret  peace  with  others' 

pain. 
But  I  delight  in  nothing  else.     I  love 
The  sight    of    agony,  and   the   sense   of 

joy, 

When  this  shall  be  another's,  and   that 

mine. 
And  I  have  no  remorse  and  little  fear. 
Which  are,  I  think,  the  checks  of  other 

men. 
This   mood    has    grown   upon   me,  until 

now 
Any  design  my  captious  fancy  makes 
The    picture    of    its  wish,  and   it    forms 

none 
But  such  as  men  like  you  would  start  to 

know, 
Is  as  my  natural  food  and  rest  debarred 
Until  it  be  accomplisht. 

Camillo.  Art  thou  not 

Most  miserable? 

Cenci.  Why  miserable  ?  — 

No.  — I  am  what  your  theologians  call 
Hardened;  —  which     they    must    be     in 

impudence, 
So  to  revile  a  man's  peculiar  taste. 
True,   I   was   happier  than    I    am,   while 

yet 
T.'r.nhood   remained   to   act   the   thing   I 

thought; 
While  lust  was  sweeter   than  revenge; 

and  now 


Invention  palls :  —  Ay,  we  must  all  grow 

old  — 
And  but  that  there  yet  remains  a  deed  to 

act 
Whose    horror    might    make    sharp    an 

appetite 
Duller  than  mine  —  I  'd  do  —  I  know  not 

what. 
When  I  was  young  I  thought  of  nothing 

else 
But  pleasure;  and  I  fed  on  honey  sweets : 
Men,   by  St.  Thomas !   cannot   live  like 

bees, 
And  I  grew  tired:  —  yet,  till  I  killed  a 

foe, 
And    heard   his    groans,  and   heard    his 

children's  groans, 
Knew   I   not  what   delight  was   else   on 

earth, 
Which  now   delights   me   little.      I   the 

rather 
Look   on   such   pangs   as   terror  ill  con- 
ceals, 
The  dry    fixt  eyeball;    the    pale    quiver- 
ing lip, 
Which    tell    me    that    the    spirit    weeps 

within 
Tears  bitterer  than  the  bloody  sweat  of 

Christ. 
I  rarely  kill  the  body,  which  preserves, 
Like  a  strong  prison,  the  soul  within  my 

power, 
Wherein  I  feed  it  with  the  breath  of  fear 
For  hourly  pain. 

Camillo.  Hell's     most     aban- 

doned fiend 
Did  never,  in  the  drunkenness  of  guilt, 
Speak  to  his  heart  as  now  you  speak  to 

me; 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  believe  you  not. 
Enter  Andrea. 
Andrea.     My  Lord,  a  gentleman  from 

Salamanca 
Would  speak  with  you. 

Cenci.      Bid    him    attend    me    in    the 

grand  saloon.         [Exit  Andrea. 

Camillo.     Farewell;    and  I  will  pray 

Almighty   God    that    thy   false,    impious 

words 
Tempt  not  his  spirit  to  abandon  thee. 

[Exit  Camillo. 
Cenci.     The  third  of  my  possessions  ! 

I  must  use 


3H 


THE   CENCI. 


Close  husbandry,  or  gold,  the  old  man's 

sword, 
Falls  from  my  withered  hand.     But  yes- 
terday 
There  came  an  order  from  the  Pope  to 

make 
Fourfold  provision  for  my  cursed  sons; 
Whom  I  had  sent   from  Rome  to  Sala- 
manca, 
Hoping  some  accident   might   cut   them 

off; 
And  meaning  if  I  could  to  starve  them 

there. 
I  pray  thee,  God,  send  some  quick  death 

upon  them  ! 
Bernardo  and  my  wife  could  not  be  worse 
If     dead    and     damned:  — then,    as    to 

Beatrice  — 
(Looking  around  him  suspiciously.) 
I    think    they   cannot    hear   me    at    that 

door; 
What  if  they  should?     And  yet  I  need 

not  speak 
Tho'    the   heart    triumphs   with   itself   in 

words. 
O,   thou   most   silent   air,   that   shalt  not 

hear 
What   now  I   think !     Thou,  pavement, 

which  I  tread 
Towards  her  chamber,  — let  your  echoes 

talk 
Of  my  imperious  step  scorning  surprise, 
But  not  of  my  intent !  —  Andrea  ! 
Enter  Andrea. 
Andrea.  My  lord? 

Cenci.       Bid    Beatrice    attend    me    in 

her  chamber 
This    evening:  — no,    at    midnight    and 

alone.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Garden  of  the  Cenci 
Palace.  Enter  Beatrice  and  <  )r- 
SINO,  as  in  conversation. 

Beatrice.  Pervert  not  truth, 

Orsino.      You  remember  where  we  held 
That    conversation;  — nay,    we    see   the 

spot 
Even  from  this  cypress;  — two  long  years 

are  past 
Since,    on     an    April    midnight,    under- 
neath 


The  moonlight  ruins  of  mount  Palatine, 
I  did  confess  to  you  my  secret  mind. 
Orsino.     You  said  you  loved  me  then 
Beatrice.  You  are  a  Priest, 

Speak  to  me  not  of  love. 

Orsino.  I  may  obtain 

The  dispensation  of  the  Pope  to  marry. 
Because  I  am  a  Priest  do  you  believe 
Your  image,  as  the  hunter  some  struck 

deer, 
Follows    me    not    whether    I    wake    or 

sleep? 
Beatrice.     As  I   have  said,   speak   to 

me  not  of  love; 
Had  you  a  dispensation  I  have  not; 
Nor  will  I  leave  this  home  of  misery 
Whilst  my  poor  Bernard,  and  that  gentle 

lady 
To  whom  I  owe  life,  and  these  virtuous 

thoughts, 
Must  suffer  what  I  still  have  strength  to 

share. 
Alas,  Orsino  !     All  the  love  that  once 
I  felt  for  you,  is  turned  to  bitter  pain. 
Ours  was  a  youthful  contract,  which  you 

first 
Broke,  by  assuming  vows  no  Pope  will 

loose. 
And  thus  I  love  you  still,  but  holily, 
Even  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might; 
And  so  I  swear  a  cold  fidelity. 
And    it    is    well    perhaps    we    shall    not 

many. 
You  have  a  sly,  equivocating  vein 
That  suits  me  not.  —  Ah,  wretched  that 

I  am  ! 
Where  shall  I  turn?     Even  now  you  look 

on  me 
As  you  were  not  my  friend,  and  as  if  you 
Discovered  that  I   thought   so,  with  false 

smiles 
Making    my    true    suspicion    seem    your 

wrong. 
Ah  no!   forgive  me;    sorrow  makes  me 

seem 
Sterner  than  else  my  nature  might  have 

been; 
I  have  a  weight  of  melancholy  thoughts, 
And  they  forbode, — but  what  can   they 

forbode 
Worse  than  I  now  endure? 

Orsino.  All  will  be  well. 

Is  the  petition  yet  piepared?    You  know 


THE   CENCI. 


3*5 


My  zeal  for  all  you  wish,  sweet  Beatrice; 
Doubt    not    but    I   will    use    my   utmost 

skill 
So  that  the   Tope  attend  to  your  com- 
plaint. 
Beatrice.      Your  zeal   for  all  I   wish; 

—  Ah  me,  you  are  cold  ! 
Your   utmost   skill   .    .    .   speak   but    one 

word  .    .    .    {aside)  Alas ! 
Weak  and  deserted  creature  that  I  am, 
Here   I   stand    bickering   with   my   only 

friend  !  [  To  ORSINO. 

This  night  my  father  gives  a  sumptuous 

feast, 
Orsino;    he  has  heard  some  happy  news 
From  Salamanca,  from  my  brothers  there, 
And  with  this  outward  show  of  love  he 

mocks 
His  inward  hate.      'T  is  bold  hypocrisy, 
For    he   would   gladlier    celebrate    their 

deaths, 
Which  I  have  heard  him  pray  for  on  his 

knees: 
Great  God !  that  such  a  father  should  be 

mine  ! 
But  there  is  mighty  preparation  made, 
And  all  our  kin,  the  Cenci,  will  be  there, 
And  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Rome. 
And    he   has    bidden    me    and   my   pale 

Mother 
Attire  ourselves  in  festival  array. 
Poor   lady !      She   expects   some   happy 

change 
In  his  dark  spirit  from  this  act;    I  none. 
At  supper  I  will  give  you  the  petition : 
Till  when  —  farewell. 

Orsino,    Farewell.    {Exit Beatrice.) 

I  know  the  Pope 
Will  ne'er  absolve  me  from  my  priestly 

vow 
But  by  absolving  me  from  the  revenue 
Of  many  a  wealthy  see;    and,  Beatrice, 
I  think  to  win  thee  at  an  easier  rate. 
Nor  shall  he  read  her  eloquent  petition : 
He   might    bestow    her     on    some    poor 

relation 
Of  his  sixth  cousin,  as  he  did  her  sister, 
And  I  should  be  debarred  from  all  access. 
Then  as   to  what   she    suffers   from  her 

father, 
In  all  this  there  is  much  exaggeration  :  — 
Old  men   are   testy  and   will   have  their 

way; 


A  man  may  stab  his  enemy,  or  his  vassal, 
And  live  a  free  life  as  to  wine  or  women, 
And  with  a  peevish  temper  may  return 
To  a  dull   home,  and  rate  his  wife  and 

children; 
Daughters     and     wives     call     this     foul 

tyranny. 
I  shall  be  well  content   if  on  my  con- 
science 
There  rest  no  heavier  sin  than  what  they 

suffer 
From  the  devices  of  my  love  —  a  net 
From  which  she  shall  escape  not.    Yet  I 

fear 
Her  subtle  mind,  her  awe-inspiring  gaze, 
Whose    beams    anatomize  me   nerve   by 

nerve 
And  lay  me  bare,  and  make  me  blush  to 

see 
My  hidden  thoughts.  — Ah,  no  !  A  friend- 
less girl 
Who  clings  to  me,  as  to  her  only  hope  :  — 
I  were  a  fool,  not  less  than  if  a  panther 
Were    panic-stricken    by  the    antelope's 

eye, 
If  she  escape  me.  \_Lxit. 


SCENE     III.  —  A    MAGNIFICENT    HALL 

in  the  Cenci  Palace.  A  Banquet. 
Enter  Cenci,  Lucretia,  Beatrice, 
Orsino,  Camillo,  Nobles. 

Cenci.       Welcome,    my     friends     and 

kinsmen;    welcome  ye, 
Princes    and    Cardinals,    pillars    of     the 

church, 
Whose  presence  honors  our  festivity. 
I  have  too  long  lived  like  an  anchorite, 
And    in   my   absence    from    your   merry 

meetings 
An  evil  word  is  gone  abroad  of  me; 
But  I  do  hope  that  you,  my  noble  friends, 
When  you  have  shared  the  entertainment 

here, 
And  heard  the  pious  cause  for  which  't  is 

given, 
And  we  have   pledged  a  health  or  two 

together, 
Will  think  me  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as 

you ; 
Sinful  indeed,  for  Adam  made  all  so, 
But  tender-hearted,  meek  and  pitiful. 


3*6 


THE    CEXCi. 


First  Guest.      In   truth,  my  Lord,  you 

seem  too  light  of  heart, 
Too    sprightly     and     companionable    a 

man, 
To  act  the  deeds  that  rumor  pins  on  you. 
(  To  his  companion.}   I   never  saw  such 

blithe  aid  open  cheer 
In  any  eye  ! 

Second  Guest.  Some  most  -desired 

event, 
In  which  we  all  demr.nd  a  common  joy, 
Has   brought   us   hither;    let  us  hear  it, 

Count. 
Cenci.     It   is   indeed   a   most   desired 

event. 
If,  when  a  parent   from  a   parent's  heart 
Lifts  bom  this  earth  to  the  great  Father 

of  all 
A  prayer,  both  when  he  lays  him  down 

to  sleep. 
And  when  he  rises  up  from  dreaming  it; 
One  supplication,  one  desire,  one  hope, 
That  he  would  grant  a  wish  for  his  two 

sons, 
Even   all   that    he   demands   in    their   re- 
gard — 
And  suddenly  beyond  his  dearest  hope, 
It  is  accomplisht,  he  should  then  rejoice, 
And   call   his   friends   and   kinsmen  to  a 

feast, 
And  task  their  love  to   grace   his  merri- 
ment, 
Then  honor  me  thus  far  —  for  I  am  he. 
Beatrice  (to  Lucretia).     Great  God  ! 

How  horrible  !   Some  dreadful   ill 
Must  have  befallen  my  brothers. 

Lucretia.  Fear  not,  Child, 

He  speaks  too  frankly. 

Beatrice.  Ah  !      my  blood 

runs  cold. 
I  fear  that  wicked  laughter  round  his  eye, 
Which  wrinkles  up  the  skin  even  to  the 

hair. 
Cenci.      Here  are   the   letters  brought 

from  Salamanca; 
Beatrice,    read    them    to    your    mother. 

God  ! 
I  thank    thee  !      In  one  night    didst    thou 

perform, 
By  ways  inscrutable,  the   thing  I  sought. 
My  disobedient  and  rebellious  sons 
Are  dead  !  — Why,  dead  !  —  What  means 

this  change  of  cheer? 


J  You   hear   me   not,    I   tell   you   they  are 

dead ; 
And  they  will  need  no  food    or   raiment 

more : 
The  tapers  that  did  light  them  the  dark 

way 
Are  their  last  cost.      The   Pope,  I  think, 

will  not 
Expect   I   should   maintain  them  in  their 

coffins. 
Rejoice  with  me  —  my  heari  is  wondrous 

glad. 

[Lucretia  sinks,  half-fainting; 
Beatrice  supports  her. 
Beatrice.      It  is  not  true  ! — Dear  lady, 

pray  look  up. 
Had    it    been    true,    there   is   a    God    in 

Heaven, 
He*  would    not    live   to   boast   of    such  a 

boon. 
Unnatural   man,  thou  knowest   that  it  is 

false. 
Cenci.     Ay,  as  the  word  of  God;  whom 

here  I  call 
To  witness  that  I  speak  the  sober  truth;  — 
And  whose  most  favoring  Providence  was 

shown 
Even    in    the    manner    of    their    deaths. 

For  Rocco 
Was  kneeling  at  the  mass,  with  sixteen 

others, 
When   the  church  fell  and  crusht  him  to 

a  mummy, 
The  rest  escaped  unhurt.      Cristofano 
Was  stabbed   in  error   by  a   jealous  man, 
i   Whilst    she   he   loved  was   sleeping  with 

his  rival: 
Ail    in   the   self-same   hour   of   the  same 

night: 
Which    shows   that   Heaven    has   special 

care  of  me. 
I   beg   those    friends  who  love  me,   that 

they  mark 
The  day  a  feast  upon  their  calendars. 
It  was  the  twenty-seventh  of  December: 
Ay,  read  the  letters  if  you  doubt  my  oath. 

[  The  assembly  appears  confused ; 
several  of  the  guests  rise. 
First    Guest.     Oh,    horrible!      I    will 

depart  — 
Second  Guest.  And  I.  — 

Third  Guest.  No,  stay! 

I   I  do  believe  it  is  some  jest;  tho'  faith  ! 


THE    CENCI. 


317 


'Tis  mocking  us  somewhat  too  solemnly. 
I  think  his  son  has  married  the  Infanta, 
Or  found  a  mine  of  gold  in  El  dorado; 
'T  is  but  to  season  some  such  news;  stay, 

stay  ! 
I  see  't  is  only  raillery  by  his  smile. 
Cenci  (  filling   a    bowl  of  wine,   and 
lifting  it  n/').     Oh",  thou  bright 
wine  whose  purple  splendor  leaps 
And  bubbles  gayly  in  this  golden  bowl 
Under  the  lamp-light,  as  my  spirits  do, 
To  hear  the  death  of   my  accursed  sons  ! 
Could  I  believe  thou  wert  their   mingled 

blood, 
Then    would    I   taste    thee   like   a   sacra- 
ment, 
And   pledge  with   thee  the  mighty  Devil 

in  Hell, 
Who,  if  a  father's  curses,  as  men  say, 
Climb  with  swift  wings   after   their  chil- 
dren's souls., 
And   drag  them   from  the  very  throne  of 

Heaven, 
Now  triumphs  in  my  triumph  !  —  But  thou 

art 
Superfluous;    I    have    drunken    deep    of 

joy, 
And  I  will  taste  no  other  wine  to-night. 
Here,  Andrea  !   Bear  the  bowl  around. 

A  Guest  (rising).  Thou  wretch! 

Will  none  among  this  noble  company 
Check  the  abandoned  villain? 

Caviillo.  For  God's  sake 

Let   me   dismiss  the    guests !      You   are 

insane, 
Some  ill  will  come  of  this. 

Second  Guest.  Seize,  silence  him  ! 

First  Guest.      I  will  ! 
Third  Guest.  And  I? 

Cetici   (addressing  those  who  rise  with 
a  threatening  gesture).  Who 

moves?     Who  speaks? 

(turning  to  the  Company) 

't  is  nothing, 

Enjoy    yourselves.  —  Beware  !     For    my 

revenge 
Is  as  the  sealed  commission  of  a  king 
That  kills,  and  none  dare  name  the  mur- 
derer. 
[  The  Banquet  is  broken  up:  several 
of  the  Guests  are  departing. 
Beatrice.      I   do   entreat  you,  go   not, 
noble  guests; 


What,  altho'  tyranny  and  impious  hate 
Stand  sheltered  by  a  father's  hoary  hair? 
What,  if  'tis  he  who  clothed  us  in  these 

limbs 
Who     tortures     them,     and     triumphs  ? 

What,  if  we, 
The  desolate  and  the  dead,  were  his  own 

flesh, 
His  children   and  his  wife,  whom   he  is 

bound 
To  love  and  shelter  ?     Shall  we  therefore 

find 
No  refuge  in  this  merciless  wide  world  ? 

0  think    what   deep    wrongs    must   have 

blotted  out 
First   love,   then  reverence    in  a  child's 

prone  mind, 
Till    it    thus   vanquish    shame    and    fear  ! 

O  think  ! 

1  have  borne  much,  and  kissed  the  sacred 

hand 
Which    crusht     us     to    the    earth,    and 

thought   its  stroke 
Was    perhaps    some    paternal    chastise- 
ment ! 
Have  excused  much,  doubted;  and  when 

no  doubt 
Remained,  have  sought  by  patience,  love, 

and  tears 
To  soften  him,  and  when  this  could  not 

be 
I  have  knelt  down  through  the  long  sleep- 
less nights 
And  lifted  up  to  God,  the  father  of  all, 
Passionate  prayers  :   and  when  these  were 

not  heard 
I    have    still    borne, —  until    I    meet   you 

here, 
Princes    and    kinsmen,    at    this    hideous 

feast 
Given  at  my  brothers'  deaths.     Two  yet 

remain, 
His  wife  remains  and  I,  whom  if  ye  save 

not, 
Ye  may  soon  share  such  merriment  again 
As   fathers    make    over    their    children's 

graves. 
O    Prince    Colonna,    thou    art   our   near 

kinsman, 
Cardinal,  thou  art  the  Pope's  Chamber 

lain, 
Camillo,  thou  art  chief  justiciary, 
Take  us  away  ! 


3* 


THE   CENCI. 


Ce?ici  {he  has  been  conversing  with 
C.A.MILLO  during  the  first  part  of 
Beatrice's  speech;  he  hears  the 
conclusion,  and  now  advances"). 
I  hope  my  good  friends  here 

Will  think  of  their  own   daughters  —  or 
perhaps 

Of  their  own  throats  —  before  they  lend 
an  ear 

To  this  wild  girl. 

Beatrice  {not  noticing  the  words  of 
Cenci).  Dare  no  one  look 

on  me  ? 

None  answer  ?     Can  one  tyrant  overbear 

The  sense  of  many  best  and  wisest  men  ? 

Or  is  it  that  I  sue  not  in  some  form 

Of  scrupulous  law,  that  ye  deny  my  suit  ? 

O  God  !     That   I  were   buried  with   my 
brothers  ! 

And    that    the   flowers  of    this   departed 
spring 

Were  fading  on  my  grave  !     And  that  my 
father 

Were  celebrating  now  one  feast  for  all ! 
Camilla.     A    bitter    wish    for    one  so 
young  and  gentle; 

Can  we  do  nothing  ? 

Colonna.  Nothing  that  I  see. 

Count  Cenci  were  a  dangerous  enemy : 

Yet  I  would  second  any  one. 

A  Cardinal.  And  I. 

Cenci.     Retire  to  your  chamber,  inso- 
lent girl ! 
Beatrice.     Retire  thou  impious  man  ! 
Ay  hide  thyself 

Where   never   eye   can    look   upon    thee 
more  ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  honor  and  obedience 

Who    art    a    torturer  ?       Father,    never 
dream 

Though   thou   mayst   overbear  this  com- 
pany, 

But  ill  must  come  of  ill.  —  Frown  not  on 
me  ! 

Haste,  hide   thyself,    lest  with  avenging 
looks 

My  brothers'    ghosts    should    hunt    thee 
from  thy  seat ! 

Cover  thy  face  from  every  living  eye, 

A.nd  start  if  thou  but  hear  a  human  step: 

Seek  out   some   dark   and  silent   corner, 
there, 

Bow  thy  white  head  before  offended  Gud, 


And  we  will  kneel  around,  and  fervently 
Pray  that    he    pity  both    ourselves,   and 
thee. 
Cenci.     My  friends,  I   do  lament  this 
insane  girl 
Has  spoilt  the  mirth  of  our  festivity. 
Good-night,   farewell;    I  will  not  make 

you  longer 
Spectators  of  our  dull  domestic  quarrels. 
Another  time.  — 
[Exeunt  all  but  Cenci  and  Beatrice. 
My  brain  is  swimming  round; 
Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine  ! 

[  To  Beatrice. 
Thou  painted  viper  ! 
Beast  that  thou  art !     Fair  and  yet  terri- 
ble ! 
I  know  a   charm  shall  make  thee  meek 

and  tame, 
Now  get  thee  from  my  sight ! 

[Exit  Beatrice. 
Here,  Andrea, 
Fill  up  this  goblet  with  Greek  wine.     I 

said 
I   would  not  drink  this   evening;   but  I 

must; 
For,  strange  to  say,  I  feel  my  spirits  fail 
With  thinking  what  I  have  decreed  to  do. 
[Drinking  the  wine. 
Be  thou  the  resolution  of  quick  youth 
Within  my  veins,  and  manhood's  purpose 

stern, 
And  age's  firm,  cold,  subtle  villany; 
As   if    thou    wert    indeed    my  children's 

blood 
Which  I  did  thirst  to  drink  !     The  charm 

works  well: 
It   must    be    done;     it  shall    be  done,    I 
swear!  [Exit. 

end  of  first  act. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the 
Cenci  Palace.  Enter  Lucretia  and 
Bernardo. 

Lucretia.     Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy; 
he  struck  but  me 
Who    have    borne    deeper    wrongs.       In 
truth,  i(  he 


THE    CENCL 


3'9 


Had    killed   me,    he  had  done  a  kinder 

deed. 
O,  God  Almighty,  do  thou  look  upon  us, 
We  have  no  other  friend  but  only  thee  ! 
Yet  weep  not;    though  I  love  you  as  my 

own, 
I  am  not  your  true  mother. 

Bernardo.  O  more,  more, 

Than  ever  mother  was  to  any  child, 
That  have  you  been  to  me  !     Had  he  not 

been 
My  father,   do  you   think  that   I   should 

weep  ! 
Lucretia.     Alas!     Poor  boy,  what  else 

couldst  thou  have  done  ? 
Enter  Beatrice. 
Beatrice  {in  a  hurried  voice-).     Did 

he  pass  this  way  F     Have  you  seen 

him,  brother  ? 
Ah  !     No,  that  is  his  step  upon  the  stairs; 
'T  is  nearer  now;  his  hand  is  on  the  door; 
Mother,  if  I  to  thee  have  ever  been 
A  duteous  child,  now  save  me  !     Thou, 

great  God, 
Whose  image  upon  earth  a  father  is, 
Dost    thou    indeed    abandon    me  ?      He 

comes; 
The    door   is   opening    now;    I    see    his 

face; 
He  frowns  on  others,  but  he  smiles  on 

me, 
Even  as  he  did  after  the  feast  last  night. 

Elnter  a  Servant. 
Almighty  God,  how  merciful  thou  art ! 
'T  is  but  Orsino's  servant.  —  Well,  what 

news? 
Servant.     My    master    bids    me    say, 

the  Holy  Father 
Has    sent  back    your  petition   thus   un- 
opened. [Giving  a  paper. 
And   he  demands  at  what  hour  't  were 

secure 
To  visit  you  again? 

Lucretia.  At  the  Ave  Mary. 

[Exit  Servant. 

So,  daughter,  our  last   hope  has  failed; 

Ah  me  ! 
How  pale  you   look;    you  tremble,  and 

you  stand 
Wrapt  in  some  fixed  and  fearful  medi- 
tation, 
As  if  one   thought  were   over  strong  for 

you : 


Your  eyes  have  a  chill  glare;    O,  dearest 

child  ! 
Are  you  gone  mad?     If  not,  pray  speak 

to  me. 
Beatrice.     You  see  I  am  not   mad :   I 

speak  to  you. 
Lucretia.     You     talkt    of     something 

that  your  father  did 
After  that  dreadful  feast?     Could  it   be 

worse 
Than   when  he  smiled,    and   cried,    My 

sons  are  dead ! 
And  every  one  lookt  in  his  neighbor's 

face 
To  see  if  others  were  as  white  as  he? 
At  the   first  word    he  spoke  I   felt  the 

blood 
Rush  to  my  heart,  and  fell  into  a  trance; 
And  when    it  past    I   sat   all  weak  and 

wild; 
Whilst  you    alone    stood    up,   and   with 

strong  words 
J   Checkt  his  unnatural  pride;    and  I  could 

see 
j  The  devil  was  rebuked  that  lives  in  him. 
•   Until  this  hour  thus  have  you  ever  stood 
Between    us    and    your    father's    moody 

wrath 
Like   a  protecting  presence :    your  firm 

mind 
Has  been  our  only  refuge  and  defence : 
What  can  have  thus  subdued  it?      What 

can  now 
Have   given    you  that   cold   melancholy 

look, 
Succeeding  to  your  unaccustomed  fear? 
Beatrice.     What    is  it   that  you  say? 

I  was  just  thinking 
'T  were  better  not  to  struggle  any  more. 
Men,   like    my  father,   have    been   dark 

and  bloody, 
Yet    never  —  Oh!  Before    worse    comes 

of  it 
'T  were  wise  to   die:   it  ends  in  that  at 

last. 
Lucretia.     O  talk  not  so,  dear  child  ! 

Tell  me  at  once 
What  did  your  father  d©  or  say  to  you? 
He  stayed  not  after  that  accursed  feast 
One  moment  in  your  chamber.  —  Speak 

to  me. 
Bernardo.     O   sister,   sister,   prithee, 

speak  to  us  ! 


320 


THE   CENCI. 


Beatrice  {speaking  very  slowly  zvith  a 

forced   calmness').       It    was    one 

word,  Mother,  one  little  word; 
One  look,  one  smile.      (Wildly.)     Oh! 

He  has  trampled  me 
Under    his    feet,    and    made    the    blood 

stream  down 
My  pallid  cheeks.     And  he  has  given  us 

all 
Ditch     water,     and    the     fever-stricken 

flesh 
Of  buffaloes,  and  bade  us  eat  or  starve, 
And  we  have  eaten.  —  He  has  made  me 

look 
On  my  beloved  Bernardo,  when  the  rust 
Of  heavy  chains  has  gangrened  his  sweet 

limbs, 
And   I   have  never  yet   despaired  —  but 

now  ! 
What  could  I  say?     [Recovering  herself. 
Ah  !     No,  't  is  nothing  new 
The   sufferings  we  all  share  have  made 

me  wild : 
He    only    struck    and    curst   me    as    he 

past; 
He    said,    he    lookt,   he    did; — nothing 

at  all 
Beyond  his  wont,  yet  it  disordered  me. 
Alas  !   I  am  forgetful  of  my  duty, 
I   should    preserve    my   senses  for   your 

sake. 
Lucretia.     Nay,  Beatrice;  have  cour- 
age my  sweet  girl, 
If  any  one  despairs  it  should  be  I 
Who  loved  him  once,  and  now  must  live 

with  him 
Till  God  in  pity  call  for  him  or  me. 
For  you  may,  like  your  sister,  find  some 

husband, 
And   smile,   years  hence,  with   children 

round  your  knees; 
Whilst  I,  then  dead,  and  all  this  hideous 

coil 
Shall  be  remembered  only  as  a  dream. 
Beatrice.     Talk  not  to  me,  dear  lady, 

of  a  husband. 
Did  you  not   nurse   me  when   my  mother 

died? 
I  )id  you  not  shield  me  and   that    dearest 

boy? 
And  had  we  any  other  friend  but  you 
In  infancy,  with  gentle  words  and  looks 
To  win  our  father  not  to  murder  us? 


And  shall  I  now  desert   you?     May  the 

ghost 
Of  my  dead  Mother  plead  against  my  soul 
If  I  abandon  her  who  filled  the  place 
She    left,     with    more,     even,     than    a 

mother's  love  ! 
Bernardo.     And  I   am  of  my  sister's 

mind.      Indeed 
I  would  not  leave  you  in  this  wretched- 
ness, 
Even  though  the  Pope  should  make  me 

free  to  live 
In  some  blithe  place,  like  others  of  my 

age, 
With  sports,  and  delicate  food,  and  the 

fresh  air. 
O  never    think    that    I   will   leave    you, 

Mother  ! 
Lucretia.     My  dear,  dear  children  ! 

Enter  Cenci,  suddenly. 
Cenci.  What,  Beatrice  here  ! 

Come  hither  ! 
\_She  shrinks  back,  and  covers  her  face. 

Nay,  hide  not  your  face,  't  is  fair; 
Look  up  !     Why,  yesternight  you  dared 

to  look 
With  disobedient  insolence  upon  me, 
Bending  a  stern  and  an  inquiring  brow 
On  what  I  meant;  whilst  I  then  sought 

to  hide 
That  which  I  came  to  tell  you  —  but  in 

vain. 
Beatrice  (wildly,   staggering  towards 

the  door).    O  that  the  earth  would 

gape  !     Hide  me,  O  God  ! 
Cenci.     Then  it  was  I  whose  inarticu- 
late words 
Fell  from  my  lips,   and  who  with  totter- 
ing steps 
;   Fled   from    your   presence,    as  you    now 

from  mine. 
Stay,    I    command   you  —  from  this   day 

and  hour 
Never  again,  I  think,  with  fearless  eye, 
And  brow  superior,  and  unaltered  cheek, 
And    that    lip   made    for    tenderness    or 

scorn, 
Shalt   thou   strike  dumb  the   meanest  of 

mankind; 
Me   least   of  all.      Now  get  thee  to  thy 

chamber  ! 
Thou  too,  loathed  image    of  thy  cursed 

mother, 


THE    GEXCl. 


[  To  Bernardo. 

Thy    milky,   meek   face   makes   me  sick 
with  hate  ! 
[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bernardo. 

(Aside.)     So  much  has  past  between  us 
as  must  make 

Me  bold,  her   fearful.  —  'T  is  an  awful 
thing 

To  touch  such  mischief  as    I   now  con- 
ceive : 

So  men  sit  shivering  on  the  dewy  bank, 

And  try  the  chill  stream  with  their  feet; 
once  in   .    .    . 

How  the  delighted  spirit  pants  for  joy  ! 
Lucre tia   {advancing  timidly  towards 


That    Beatrice    disturbed    the    feast    la.t 

night? 
You  did  not  hope  to  stir  some  enemies 
Against   me,   and   escape,  and  laugh   to 

scorn 
What  every  nerve  of  you  now  trembles 

at? 
You  judged  that  men  were   bolder  than 

they  are; 
Few  dare  to  stand  between  their  grave 

and  me. 
Lucretia.  Look  not  so  dreadfully! 

By  my  salvation 
I  knew  not  aught  that  Beatrice  designed; 
Nor  do  I  think  she  designed  anvthing 


iiim).     O  husband !    Pray  forgive   I   Until    she   heard  you   talk   of   her  dead 


poor  Beatrice. 
She  meant  not  any  ill. 

Coici.  Nor  you  perhaps? 


brotht. 

Cenci.      Blaspheming  liar !     You  are 
damned  for  this  ! 


Nor   that    young    imp,   whom  you    have   :   But  I  will  take  you  where  you  may  per- 


taught  by  rote 


suade 


Parricide     with      his     alphabet?       Nor   :  The  stones  you  tread  on  to  deliver  y 


(jiacomo? 
Nor  those  two  most  unnatural  sons,  who 

stirred 
Enmity  up  against  me  with  the  Pope! 


For  men  shall  there  be   none   but  those 

who  dare 
All   things  —  not   question   that  which  I 

command. 


Whom  in  one  night  merciful  God  cut  off :      On  Wednesday  next  I  shall  set  out :   you 


Innocent  lambs  !     They  thought  not  any 


know 
That  savage  rock,  the  Castle  of  Petrella: 


You  were    not    here    conspiring?      You   i   'T  is  safely   walled,   and  moated  round 


said  nothing 


about 


Of    how   I    might    be    dungeoned    as    a      Its  dungeons  underground,  and  its  thick 

madman;  towers 

Or    be    condemned    to    death    for    some       Never     told     tales;     though     they    have 


offence, 


heard  and  seen 


And  you  would  be  the  witnesses?  — This      What  might  make  dumb  things  speak. 


failing, 
How  just  it  were  to  hire  assassins,  or 
Put  sudden  poison  in  my  evening  drink? 


Why  do  you  linger? 
Make     speediest     preparation     for    the 
jcurney !  [Exit  Lucretia. 


Or  smother  me  when  overcome  by  wine?   i  The    all-beholding    sun    yet    shines;     I 

Seeing  we  had  no  other  judge  but  God,  hear 

And    he    had    sentenced   me,    and   there    |   A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets; 

were  none 
But  you  to  be  the  executioners 
Of  his  decree  enregistered  in  heaven? 
Oh,  no!     You  said  not  this? 

Lucretia.  So  help  me  God, 

I  never  thought   the  things  you  charge 

me  with  ! 
Cenci.      If  you  dare  speak  that  wicked 

lie  again 
I  '11    kill    you.      What  !      It  was    not  by 

your  counsel 


I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the  window 

panes : 
It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day; 
Loud,  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and 

ears, 
And  every  little  corner,  nook,  and  hole 
Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 
Come  darkness!   Yet,  what  is  the  day  tc 

me? 
And  wherefore  should  I  wish  for  night, 

who  do 


J2- 


THE  <CENCI. 


A  deed  which  shall  confound  both  night 

and  day? 
'T  is  she  shall  grope  through  a  bewilder- 
ing mist 
Of  horror :    if   there  be  a  sun  in  heaven 
She  shall  not  dare  to  look  upon  its  beams; 
Nor  feel  its  warmth.      Let  her  then  wish 

for  night; 
The  act  I  think  shall  soon  extinguish  all 
For  me :   I  bear  a  darker  deadlier  gloom 
Than  the  earth's  shade,  or  interlunar  air, 
Or    constellations    quencht   in    murkiest 

cloud, 
In  which  I  walk  secure  and  unbeheld 
Towards    my  purpose.  —  Would    that    it 
were  done  !  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Chamber  in  the 
Vatican.  Enter  Camillo  and 
GlACOMO,  in  conversation. 

Camillo.     There   is    an    obsolete    and 

»        doubtful  law 
By     which    you     might     obtain    a    bare 

provision  # 

Of  food  and  clothing  — 


Giacomo. 


Nothin 


g  more 


?  Ah 


Bare  must  be   the  provision  which  strict 

law 
Awards,  and  aged,  sullen  avarice  pays. 
Why  did  my  father  not  apprentice  me 
To  some  mechanic  trade?     I  should  have 

then 
Been  trained  in  no  highborn  necessities 
Which  I  could  meet  not  by  my  daily  toil. 
The  eldest  son  of  a  rich  nobleman 
Is  heir  to  all  his  incapacities; 
lie  has  wide  wants,  and   narrow  powers. 

If  you, 
Cardinal  Camillo,  were  reduced  at  once 
From    thrice-driven    beds   of    down,  and 

delicate  food, 
An  hundred  servants,  and  six  palaces, 
To    that   which   nature   doth   indeed   re- 
quire? — 
Camillo.     Nay,  there  is  reason  in  your 

plea;   't  were  hard. 
Giacomo.      'T  is  hard  for  a  firm  man  to 

bear :    but  I 
Have  a  dear  wife,  a  lady  of   high  birth, 
Whose  dowry  in  ill  hour  I  lent  my  father 
Without  a  bond  or  witness  to  the  deed: 


And    children,     who    inherit     her    fine 

senses, 
The   fairest   creatures   in   this    breathing 

world; 
And    she    and    they   reproach    me    not. 

Cardinal, 
Do  you  not  think  the  Pope  would  inter- 
pose 
And  stretch  authority  beyond  the  law? 
( 'amillo.     Though  your  peculiar  case  is 

hard,  I  know 
The  Pope  will  not   divert   the   course  of 

law. 
After  that  impious  feast  the   other  night 
I  spoke  with  him,  and  urged  him  then  to 

check 
Your   father's  cruel   hand;    he   frowned 

and  said, 
"Children    are    disobedient,    and    they 

sting 
Their    fathers'    hearts    to    madness    and 

despair, 
Requiting  years  of  care  with  contumely. 
I  pity  the  Count  Cenci  from  my  heart; 
His    outraged    love    perhaps    awakened 

hate, 
j  And  thus  he  is  exasperated  to  ill. 
In  the  great  war   between  the    old   and 

young 
I,  who  have  white   hairs  and   a  tottering 

body, 
Will  keep  at  least  blameless  neutrality." 

Enter  Orsino. 
You,  my  good  Lord  Orsino,  heard  those 

words. 
Orsino.     What  words? 
Giacomo.  Alas,  repeat  them 

not  again  ! 
There  then  is  no  redress  for  me,  at  least 
None  but  that  which  I   may  achieve  my- 
self, 
Since  I  am  driven   to   the  brink.  —  But, 

say, 
My  innocent  sister  and  my  only  brother 
Are  dying  underneath  my  father's  eye. 
The  memorable  torturers  of  this  land, 
Galeaz,  Visconti,  Borgia,  Ezzelin, 
Never  inflicted  on  the  meanest  slave 
What   these  endure;    shall   they  have  no 

protection  ? 
Camillo.      Why,   if    they  would    peti- 
tion to  the  Pope 
I  see  not  how  he  could  refuse  it  —  yet 


THE    CENCI. 


it,    and 


nterest; 
I   doubt 


He  holds  it  of  most  dangerous  example 
In  aught  to  weaken  the  paternal  power, 
Being,  as  't  were,  the  shadow  of  his  own. 
I    pray    you    now    excuse    me.     I    have 

business 
That  will  not  bear  delay. 

[Exit  Camillo. 
Giacomo.  But  you,  Orsino, 

Have  the  petition  :  wherefore  not  present 

it? 
Orsino.      I     have     presented 

backed  it  with 
My  earnest  prayers,  and  urgent 
It  was   returned   unanswered. 

not 
But  that  the  strange  and  execrable  deeds 
Alleged  in  it — in  truth  they  might  well 

baffle 
Any   belief — have    turned    the     Pope's 

displeasure 
Upon  the  accusers  from  the  criminal : 
So    I    should    guess   from  what  Camillo 

said. 
Giacomo.      My    friend,     that     palace- 
walking  devil  Gold 
Has  whispered  silence  to  his  Holiness: 
And    we    are    left,    as    scorpions    ringed 

with  fire. 
What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves 

to  death? 
For  he  who  is  our  murderous  persecutor 
Is  shielded  by  a  father's  holy  name, 


{Stops  abruptly.') 
Fear   not   to   speak 

as  the  deeds  they 


Or  I  would  — 
Orsino.     What? 

your  thought. 
Words   are   but    holy 

cover : 
A  priest  who  has  forsworn  the  God  he 

serves ; 
A  jadge  who  makes  Truth  weep  at  his 

decree; 
A    friend    who    should    weave    counsel, 

as  I  now, 
But  as  the  mantle  of  some  selfish  guile; 
A  father  who  is  all  a  tyrant  seems, 
Were  the  profaner  for  his  sacred  name. 
Giacomo.      Ask  me  not  what  I  think; 

the  unwilling  brain 
Feigns  often  what  it  would  not;    and  we 

trust 
Imagination  with  such  fantasies 
As   the    tongue    dares    not    fashion    into 

words, 


Which     have     no     words,     their     horror 

makes  them  dim 
To  the   mind's   eye.  —  My  heart    denies 

itself 
To  think  what  you  demand. 

Orsino.  But  a  friend's  bosom 

Is  as  the  inmost  cave  of  our  own  mind 
Where  we  sit  shut  from  the  wide  gaze 

of  day, 
And  from  the  all-communicating  air. 
You  look  what  I  suspected  — 

Giacomo.  Spare  me  now  ! 

I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood, 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  pas- 
senger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he, 
As    my    thoughts    are,    should    be  —  a 

murderer. 
I  know  you  are  my  friend,  and  all  I  dare 
Speak  to  my  soul  that  will   I   trust  with 

thee. 
But  now  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  would 

take 
Lone  counsel  from  a  night  of  sleepless 

care. 
Pardon  me,  that  I  say  farewell  —  fare- 
well ! 
I  would  that  to  my  own  suspected  self 
I  could  address  a  word  so  full  of  peace. 
Orsino.   Farewell !  —  Be  your  thoughts 
better  or  more  bold. 

[Exit  Giacomo. 
I  had  disposed  the  Cardinal  Camillo 
To  feed  his  hope  with  cold  encourage- 
ment : 
It  fortunately  serves  my  close  designs 
That  't  is  a  trick  of  this  same  family 
To  analyze  their  own  and  other  minds. 
Such  self-anatomy  shall  teach  the  will 
Dangerous    secrets:     for    it    tempts    our 

powers, 
Knowing    what    must    be    thought,    and 

may  be  done, 
Into  the  depth  of  darkest  purposes: 
So  Cenci  fell  into  the  pit;    even  I, 
Since  Beatrice  unveiled  me  to  myself, 
And  made  me  shrink  from  what  I  can- 
not shun, 
Show  a  poor  figure  to  my  own  esteem, 
To  which  I  grow  half  reconciled.     I  '11 

do 
As  little  mischief  as  I  can;    that  thought 
Shall  fee  the  accuser  conscience. 


2-4 


THE    CENCI. 


{After  a  pause.}  Now  what  harm 

If  Cenci  should  be  murdered?  —  Yet,  if 

murdered, 
Wherefore  by  me?     And  what  if  I  could 

take 
The  profit,  yet  omit  the  sin  and  peril 
In  such  an  action?     Of  all  earthly  things 
1  fear  a  man  whose  blows  outspeed  his 

words ; 
And    such    is    Cenci:     and   while   Cenci 

lives 
1  lis  daughter's  dowry  were  a  secret  grave 
If  a  priest  wins  her.-— Oh,  fair  Beatrice! 
Would  that   I   loved   thee   not,  or  loving 

thee 
Could  but  despise  danger  and  gold  and 

all 
That    frowns   between    my   wish   and   its 

effect, 
Or     smiles     beyond     it !     There    is    no 

escape  .  .  . 
Her  bright   form    kneels    beside    me    at 

the  altar, 
And  follows  me  to  the  resort  of  men, 
And   fills    my  slumber   with    tumultuous 

dreams, 
So  wrhen  I  wake   my  blood   seems  liquid 

fire; 
And  if  I  strike  my  damp  and  dizzy  head 
My    hot    palm    scorches    it :     her    very 

name, 
But    spoken    by   a    stranger,   makes    my 

heart 
Sicken  and  pant;    and  thus  unprofitably 
I  clasp  the  phantom  of  unfelt  delights 
Till  weak  imagination  half  possesses 
The     self -created     shadow.      Yet     much 

longer 
Will    I    not    nurse   this   life   of    feverous 

hours : 
From  the  unravelled  hopes  of  Giacomo 
i  must  work  out  my  own  dear  purposes. 
1  see,  as  from  a  tower,  the  end  of  all: 
1 1 er  father  dead;    her  brother   hound   to 

me 
By  a  dark  secret,  surer  than  the  grave; 
Her  mother  scared   and   unexpostulating 
From    the    dread    manner    of    her    wish 

achieved : 
And  she  !  —  Once  more  take  courage  my 

faint  heart: 
What  cbres   a    friendless  maiden   matcht 
with  thee? 


I  have  such  foresight  as  assures  success: 
Some  unbeheld  divinity  doth  ever, 
When    dread    events    are    near,    stir    up 

men's  minds 
To  black  suggestions;    and   he   prospers 

best, 
Not  who  becomes  the  instrument  of  ill, 
But    who    can    flatter     the     dark     spirit, 

that  makes 
Its  empire  and  its  prey  of  other  hearts 
Till    it    become    his    slave  ...  as   I  will 

do.  [Exit. 

END    OF    THE    SECOND   ACT. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the 
Cenci  Palace.  Lucretia,  to  her 
enter  Beatrice. 

Beatrice  {she  enters   staggering,    and 

speaks  wildly').      Reach   me    that 

handkerchief ! —  My  brain  is  hurt; 
My  eyes  are   full  of    blood;     just   wipe 

them  for  me  .  .  . 
I  see  but  indistinctly. 

Lticretia.  My  sweet  child, 

You  have  no  wound;     'tis  only  a  cold 

dew 
That  starts   from  your  dear    brow  .   .   . 

Alas!  Alas! 
What  has  befallen? 

Beatrice.  How  comes  this  hair 

undone  ? 
Its  wandering  strings  must  be  what  blind 

me  so, 
And  yet  I  tied  it  fast.  — O,  horrible  ! 
The    pavement    sinks     under     my    feet  ! 

The  walls 
Spin   round !      I    see   a  woman   weeping 

there, 
And     standing     calm     and     motionless,, 

whilst  1 
Slide    giddily   as   the   world    reels.    .    .   . 

My  Cod! 
The  beautiful  blue  heaven  is  fleckt   with 

blood  ! 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black  !     The 

air 
Is  changed  to  vapors  such  as   the   dead 

breathe 


THE   CEXCL. 


In  charnel  pits  !     Pah  !     I    am    choked  ! 

There  creeps 
A  clinging,  black,  contaminating  mist 
About  me    .    .    .    't  is  substantial,  heavy, 

thick, 
I  cannot  pluck  it  from  me,  for  it  glues 
My  ringers  and  my  limbs  to  one  another, 
And  eats  into  my  sinews,  and  dissolves 
My  flesh  to  a  pollution,  poisoning 
The   subtle,    pure,    and   inmost   spirit    of 

life  ! 
My  God  !  I  never   knew  what  the  mad 

felt 
Before:    for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt  !    j 
{More  wildly.')     No,  I  am  dead!    These 

putrefying  limbs 
Shut  round   and   sepulchre   the    panting 

soul 
Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wander- 
ing air  !  {A  pause.) 
What   hideous  thought   was   that    I   had 

even  now? 
;Tis  gone;    and  yet  its  burden  remains 

here 
O'er  these  dull  eyes  .   .   .  upon  this  weary 

heart ! 

0  world  !   O  life  !    O  day  !    O  misery' ! 
Lucretia.     What   ails   thee,   my   poor 

child?     She  answers  not: 
Her  spirit  apprehends  the  sense  of  pain, 
But  not  its  cause;  suffering  has  dried  away 
The  source  from  which  it   sprung   .    .    . 
Beatrice  (frantically  ).       Like  Parri- 
cide  .   .   . 
Misery  has  killed  its  father  :  yet  its  father 
Never    like    mine   .    .    .   O  God !      What 
thing  am  I? 
Lucretia.       My    dearest    child,    what 

has  your  father  done  ? 
Beatrice  {doubtfully).     Who  art  thou, 
questioner?     I  have  no  father. 
{Aside.)     She    is   the    madhouse    nurse 

who  tends  on  me, 
It  is  a  piteous  office. 

(  To  Lucretia,  in  a  slow,  subdued  voice.) 
Do  you  know 

1  thought  I  was  that  wretched  Beatrice 
Men   speak   of,  whom  her    father  some- 
times hales 

From  hall  to  hall  by  the  entangled  hair: 
At  others,  pens  up  naked  in  damp  cells 
Where  scaly  reptiles   crawl,  and   starves 
her  there, 


Till    she    will    eat    strange    flesh.      This 

woful  story 
So  did  I  overact  in  my  sick  dreams, 
That  I  imagined  .   .   .   no,  it  cannot  be  ! 
Horrible  things  have  been  in   this   wild 

world, 
Prodigious     mixtures,     and     confusions 

strange 
Of  good  and   ill;    and  worse  have  been 

conceived 
Than  ever  there  was  found  a  heart  to  do. 
But  never  fancy  imaged  such  a  deed 
As   .    .    .    {Pauses,    suddenly    recollecting 
Iterself.) 
"Who  art  thou?     Swear  to  me,  ere  I 

die 
With  fearful  expectation,  that  indeed 
Thou    art    not   what   thou  seemest  .    .   . 

Mother  ! 
Lucretia.  Oh ! 

My  sweet  child,  know  you   .   .   . 

Beatrice.  Vet  speak  it  not : 

For  then  if  this  be  truth,  that  other  too 
Must  be  a  truth,  a  firm  enduring  truth, 
Linkt  with  each   lasting  circumstance  of 

life, 
Never  to  change,  never  to  pass  away.       # 
Why  so  it  is.     This  is  the  Cenci  Palace; 
Thou  art  Lucretia:    I  am  Beatrice. 
I  have  talkt  some   wild  words,  but  will 

no  more. 
Mother,  come  near  me :    from  this  point 

of  time, 
lam   .    .    .  {LLer  voice  dies  away  faintly.) 
Lucretia.     Alas !     What  has  befallen 

thee,  child? 
What  has  thy  father  done? 

Beatrice.  What  have  I  clone? 

Am  I  not  innocent?     Is  it  my  crime 
That  one  with  white  hair  and   imperious 

brow, 
Who    tortured    me    from    my    forgotten 

years 
As  parents  only  dare,  should  call  himself 
My   father,   yet    should    be!  —  Oh,  what 

am  I? 
What   name,   what   place,  what  memory 

shall  be  mine? 
What  retrospects,  outliving  even  despair? 
Lucretia.      He    is     a     violent     tyrant, 

surely,  child : 
We  know  that  death  alone  can  make  us 

free; 


326 


THE   CENCL 


His  death    or    ours.     But    what   can   he 

have  done 
Of  deadlier  outrage  or  worse  injury? 
Thou  art  unlike  thyself;    thine  eyes  shoot 

forth 
A  wandering  and  strange  spirit.     Speak 

to  me, 
Unlock  those  pallid  hands  whose  fingers 

twine 
With  one  another. 

Beatrice.  'T  is  the  restless  life 

Tortured  within  them.      If  I  try  to  speak 
I  shall  go  mad.     Ay,  something  must  be 

done; 
What,  yet  I   know  not   .   .   .   something 

which  shall  make 
The   thing  that    I    have    suffered    but    a 

shadow 
In  the  dread  lightning  which  avenges  it; 
Brief,  rapid,  irreversible,  destroying 
The  consequence  of  what  it  cannot  cure. 
Some   such   thing  is    to    be    endured    or 

done: 
When  I  know  what,  I  shall  be  still  and 

calm, 
And  never  any  thing  will  move  me  more. 
But    now !  —  O     blood,    which    art    my 

father's  blood, 
Circling  thro'  these  contaminated  veins, 
If    thou,  poured    forth    on    the    polluted 

earth, 
Could  wash  away  the  crime,  and  punish- 
ment 
By  which  I  suffer  .    .   .   no,  that  cannot 

be! 
Many   might   doubt   there    were    a    God 

above 
Who  sees  and  permits  evil,  and  so  die: 
That  faith  no  agony  shall  obscure  in  me. 
Lucretia.     It  must  indeed  have  been 

some  bitter  wrong; 
Yet    what,    I   dare  not  guess.     Oh,    my 

lost  child, 
Hide  not  in  proud  impenetrable  grief 
Thy  sufferings  from  my  fear. 

Beatrice.  I  hide  them  not. 

What   are  the   words  which    you    would 

have  me  speak? 
I,  who  can  feign  no  image  in  my  mind 
Of   that    which    has  transformed    me:    I, 

whose  thought 
Is  like  a  ghost  shrouded  and  folded   up 
In  its  own  formless  horror:  of  all  words 


That  minister  to  mortal  intercourse, 

Which  wouldst  thou  hear?     For  there  is 
none  to  tell 

My  misery:   if  another  ever  knew 

Aught  like  to  it,  she  died  as  I  will  die, 

And  left  it,  as  I  must,  without  a  name. 

Death !   Death  !     Our  law  and   our  reli- 
gion call  thee 

A  punishment   and   a   reward  .   .   .  Oh, 
which 

Have  I  deserved? 

Lucretia.      The  peace   of    innocence; 

Till    in    your    season    you    be    called    to 
heaven. 

Whate'er   you    may   have    suffered,   you 
have  done 

No    evil.      Death    must    be    the  punish- 
ment 

Of    crime,   or   the   reward    of    trampling 
down 

The  thorns  which  God  has  strewed  upon 
the  path 

Which  leads  to  immortality. 

Beatrice.  Ay,  death   .    .    . 

The  punishment  of  crime.     I  pray  thee, 
God, 

Let  me  not  be  bewildered  while  I  judge. 

If  I  must  live  day  after  day,  and  keep 

These  limbs,  the  unworthy  temple  of  thy 
spirit, 

As   a    foul   den  from   which   what   thou 
abhorrest 

May  mock  thee,  unavenged  ...  it  shall 
not  be  ! 

Self-murder   ...  no,  that  might  be  no 
escape, 

For  thy  decree  yawns  like  a  Hell  between 

Our  will   and  it: — Oh!    In  this  mortal 
world 

There  is  no  vindication  and  no  law 

Which  can  adjudge  and  execute  the  doom 

Of  that  thro'  which  I  suffer. 
Enter  Orsino. 

(She   approaclies  him   solemnly.)     Wel- 
come, Friend  ! 

I  have  to  tell  you  that,  since  last  we  met, 

I   have   endured   a  wrong  so   great   ami 
strange, 

That  neither  life  nor  death  can  give  me 
rest. 

Ask  me  not  what  it  is,  for  there  are  deeds 

Which    have    no   form,  sufferings   which 
have  no  tongue. 


THE    CENCL 


327 


Or  si  no.     And  what  is  he  who  has  thus 

injured  you? 
Beatrite.       The    man    they    call   my 

father:   a  dread  name. 
Orsino.     It  cannot  be  .   .   . 
Beatrice.  What  it  can  be,  or  not, 

Forbear  to  think.     It  is,  and  it  has  been; 
Advise  me  how  it  shall  not  be  again. 
I  thought  to  die;    but  a  religious  awe 
Restrains  me,  and  the  dread  lest  death 

itself 
Might  be  no  refuge  from  the  conscious- 
ness 
Of  what  is  yet  unexpiated.     Oh,  speak  ! 
Orsino.     Accuse  him  of  the  deed,  and 
let  the  law 
Avenge  thee. 

Beatrice.     Oh,  ice-hearted  counsellor  ! 
If  I  could  find  a  word  that  might  make 

known 
The   crime  of    my  destroyer;     and  that 

done, 
My  tongue  should  like  a  knife  tear  out 

the  secret 
Which  cankers  my  heart's  core  ;    ay,  lay 

all  bare 
So  that  my  unpolluted  fame  should  be 
With    vilest    gossips    a    stale    mouthed 

story; 
A  mock,  a  bye-word,  an  astonishment :  — 
If  this  were  done,  which  never  shall  be 

done, 
Think  of  the  offender's  gold,  his  dreaded 

hate, 
And  the  strange  horror  of  the  accuser's 

tale, 
Baffling  belief,  and  overpowering  speech; 
Scarce  whispered,  unimaginable,  wrapt 
In  hideous  hints   .   .   .   Oh,  most  assured 
redress  ! 
Orsino.      You  will  endure  it  then? 
Beatrice.  Endure  ?  —  Orsino, 

It  seems  your  counsel  is  small  profit. 
(  7 'urns  from  him,  and  speaks  half  to 
herself.)  Ay, 

All  must  be  suddenly  resolved  and  done. 
What  is  this  undistinguishable  mist 
Of     thoughts    which    rise,    like    shadow 

after  shadow, 
Darkening  each  other? 

Orsino.  Should  the  offender  live? 

Triumph  in  his  misdeed?    and  make,  by 
use, 


His  crime,   whate'er   it   is,   dreadful  no 

doubt, 
Thine  element;    until  thou    mayest  be- 
come 
Utterly  lost;   subdued 'even  to  the  hue 
Of  that  which  thou  permittest? 

Beatrice  (to  herself).       Mighty  death  ! 
Thou    double-visaged    shadow?       Only 

judge ! 
Rightfullest  arbiter  ! 

(She  retires  absorbed  in  thought.) 

Lucretia.  If  the  lightning 

Of  God  has  e'er  descended  to  avenge  .  .  . 

Orsino.     Blaspheme    not !     His  high 

Providence  commits 

Its  glory  on  this  earth,  and  their  own 

wrongs 
Into  the  hands  of  men;   if  they  neglect 
To  punish  crime   .   .   . 

Lucretia.     But  if  one,  like  this  wretch, 
Should  mock,  with  gold,  opinion,  law, 

and  power? 
If    there    be    no    appeal    to    that   which 

makes 
The  guiltiest  tremble?      If  because  our 

wrongs, 
For  that  they  are  unnatural,  strange,  and 

monstrous, 
Exceed  all  measure  of  belief?     O  God  ! 
If,    for   the   very   reasons  which    should 

make 
Redress  most  swift  and  sure,  our  injurer 

triumphs? 
And  we,  the  victims,  bear  worse  punish- 
ment 
Than  that  appointed  for  their  torturer? 
Orsino.  Think  not 

But  that  there  is  redress  where  there  is 

wrong, 
So  we  be  bold  enough  to  seize  it. 

Lucretia.  How? 

If  there  were  any  way  to  make  all  sure, 
I  know  not   .   .   .  but  I  think  it  might  be 

good 
To  .  .    . 

Orsino.      Why,    his    late    outrage    to 
Beatrice; 
For  it  is  such,  as  I  but  faintly  guess, 
As  makes  remorse  dishonor,  and  leaves 

her 
Only  one  duty,  how  she  may  avenge : 
You,  but  one  refuge  from  ills  ill  endured; 
Me,  but  one  counsel   .   .   . 


3* 


THE   CENCL 


Lncretia.  For  we  cannot  hope   |        Orsino.  I  know  two  dull. 

That  aid,  or  retribution,  or  resource  fierce  outlaws, 

Will  arise  thence,  where  every  other  one   j  Who  think  man's  spirit  as  a  worm's,  and 
Might  find  them  with  less  need.  they 

(Beatrice  advances.*)   \  Would  trample  out,  for  any  slight  caprice, 


Orsino. 
Beatrice. 


Then 

Peace,  Orsino  ! 


The  meanest  or  the   noblest  life.     Thi 
mood 


And,   honored    Lady,   while   I   speak,   I   i   Is  marketable  here  in  Rome.     They  sell 
pray 


What  we  now  want. 

Lucretia.     To-morrow  before  dawn. 


That  you  put  off,  as  garments  overworn, 

Forbearance   and  respect,    remorse    and  j  Cenci  will  take  us  to  that  lonely  rock, 


fear, 
And  all  the  fit  restraints  of  daily  life, 
Which  have  been  borne  from  childhood, 

but  which  now 
Would  be  a  mockery  to  my  holier  plea. 
As  I  have  said,  I  have  endured  a  wrong, 
Which,    though  it   be   expressionless,   is 

such 
As   asks    atonement;    both    for   what   is 

past, 
And  lest  I  be  reserved,  clay  after  day, 
To    load    with  crimes   an   overburdened 

soul, 
And  be   .   .   .   what  ye  can  dream  not.     I 

have  prayed 
To  God,  and  I  have  talkt  with  my  own 

heart, 
And  have  unravelled  my  entangled  will, 
And  have  at  length  determined  what  is 

right. 
Art  thou  my  friend,   Orsino?     False  or 

true? 
Pledge  thy  salvation  ere  I  speak. 

Orsino.  I  swear 

To  dedicate  my  cunning,  and  my  strength, 
My  silence,  and  whatever  else  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands. 

Lucretia.     You   think  we   should  de- 
vise 
His  death? 

Beatrice.     And   execute    what    is   de- 
vised, 
And   suddenly.      We  must  be  brief  and 

bold. 
Orsino.     And  yet  most  cautious. 
Lucrctia.  For  the  jealous  laws 

Would  punish  us  with  death  and  infamy 
For  that  which    it    became  themselves  to 

do. 
Beatrice.      Be  cautious  as  ye  may,  but 

prompt.     Orsino, 
What  are  the  means? 


Petrella,  in  the  Apulian  Apennines. 
If  he  arrive  there   .   .    . 

Beatrice.  He  must  not  arrive. 

Orsino.     Will  it  be  dark  before  you 

reach  the  tower? 
Lucretia.     The  sun  will  scarce  be  set. 
.   Beatrice.  But  I  remember 

Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the   fort,  the 

road 
Crosses   a   deep  ravine;    't  is  rough   and 

narrow, 
And   winds   with   short   turns   down   the 

precipice; 
And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years, 
Sustained    itself     with    terror    and    with 

toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings  seems  slowly  coming 

down; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul  hour  after  hour, 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life;    yet  clinging, 

leans; 
And  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread 

abyss 
In  which  it   fears   to    fall :    beneath   this 

crag 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 
The   melancholy    mountain    yawns   .   .   , 

below, 
You  hear  but  see  not   an   impetuous   tor- 
rent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm;  and  high  above  there 

grow, 
With   intersecting   trunks,   from   erng   to 

crag, 
Cedars,    and    yews,    and    pines;     whose 

tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By   the   dark    ivy's  twine.     At   noonday 

here 


THE    CENCI. 


3^9 


T  is    twilight,    and    at    sunset    blackest 

night. 
Orsino.     Before  you  reach  that  bridge 

make  some  excuse 
For  spurring  on  your  mules,  or  loitering 
Until   .   .   . 

Beatrice.  What  sound  is  that? 

Lucreiia.     Hark  !  No,  it  cannot  be  a 

servant's  step; 
It  must  be  Cenci,  unexpectedly 
Returned  .    .   .   Make    some    excuse    for 

being  here. 
Beatrice  (  To  Orsino,  as  she  goes  out.} 
That  step  we  hear  approach  must  never 

pass 
The  bridge  of  which  we  spoke. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

Orsino.  What  shall  I  do? 

Cenci   must   find    me   here,   and   I   must 

bear 
The  imperious  inquisition  of  his  looks 
As  to  what   brougnt   me   hither:   let   me 

mask 
Mine   own    in    some    inane    and    vacant 

smile. 
Enter  GlACOMO,  in  a  harried  manner. 
How!   Have  you  ventured  hither?  Know 

you  then 
That  Cenci  is  from  home  ? 

Giacomo.  I  sought  him  here; 

And  now  must  wait  till  he  returns. 

Orsino.  Great  God  ! 

Weigh  you  the  danger  of  this  rashness? 

Giacomo.  Ay ! 

Does    my   destroyer    know   his    danger? 

We 
Are  now  no  more,  as  once,  parent   and 

child, 
But   man   to  man;    the  oppressor   to  the 

opprest; 
The   slanderer  to  the  slandered;    foe  to 

foe : 
He   has  cast  Nature  off,  which  was  his 

shield, 
And   Nature   casts   him   off,   who   is   her 

shame; 
And    I    spurn   both.        Is    it    a    father's 

throat 
Which  I  will   shake,  and   say,  I   ask  not 

gold; 
I  ask  not  happy  years;    nor  memories 
Of  tranquil  childhood;     nor  home-shel- 
tered love; 


Tho'  all  these  hast   thou  torn  from  me, 

and  more; 
But  only  my  fair   fame;  only  one  hoard 
Of  peace,  which  I  thought  hidden  from 

thy  hate, 
Under  the  penury  heapt  on  me  by  thee, 
Or  I  will   .   .   .   God  can  understand  and 

pardon, 
Why  should  I  speak  with  man  ? 

Orsino.  Be  calm,  dear  friend. 

Giacomo.     Well,  I  will  calmly  tell  you 

what  he  did. 
This  old   Francesco  Cenci,  as  you  know, 
Borrowed  the  dowry  of  my  wife  from  me, 
And  then  denied  the  loan;  and  left  me  so 
In  poverty,  the  which  I  sought  to  mend 
By  holding  a  poor  office  in  the  state. 
It  had  been  promist  to  me,  and  already 
I    bought    new   clothing   for   my   ragged 

babes, 
And    my    wife    smiled;     and    my    heart 

knew  repose. 
When  Cenci's  intercession,  as  I  found, 
Conferred  this  office  on  a  wretch,  whom 

thus 
He  paid  for  vilest  service.     I  returned 
With  this   ill   news,  and  we  sate  sad   to- 
gether 
Solacing  our  despondency  with  tears 
Of  such  affection  and  unbroken  faith 
As  temper  life's  worst  bitterness;   when 

he, 
As  he  is  wont,  came  to  upbraid  and  curse, 
Mocking  our  poverty,  and  telling  us 
Such  was  God's  scourge  for  disobedient 

sons. 
And  then,  that  I  might   strike  him  dumb 

with  shame, 
I  spoke    of    my  wife's    dowry;    but    he 

coined 
A  brief    yet    specious    tale,    how  I    had 

wasted 
The  sum  in  secret  riot;    and  he  saw 
My  wife  was  toucht,  and  he  went  smil- 
ing forth. 
And  when  I  knew  the  impression  he  had 

made, 
And  felt  my  wife  insult  with  silent  scorn 
My  ardent    truth,  and    look    averse    and 

cold, 
I  went  forth  too  :  hut  soon  returned  again; 
Yet   not  so  soon  but  that  my  wife  had 

tauoht 


33° 


THE   CENCI. 


My  children    her    harsh    thoughts,   and 

they  all  cried, 
"  Give  us  clothes,  father  !     Give  us  better 

food ! 
What  you   in  one   night  squander  were 

enough 
For   months!"     I  lookt,  and  saw   that 

home  was  hell. 
And  to  that  hell  will  I  return  no  more 
Until  mine  enemy  has  rendered  up 
Atonement,  or,  as  he  gave  life  to  me 
I  will,  reversing  nature's  law   .    .   . 

Orsino.  Trust  me, 

The    compensation   which    thou    seekest 

here 
Will  be  denied. 

Giacomo.  Then  .   .   .  Are  you 

not  my  friend? 
Did  you  not  hint  at  the  alternative, 
Upon  the  brink  of  which  you  see  I  stand, 
The  other   day  when  we  conversed  to- 
gether? 
My  wrongs  were  then  less.     That  word 

parricide, 
Altho'    I   am   resolved,   haunts   me  like 

fear. 
Orsino.     It  must  be  fear  itself,  for  the 

bare  word 
Is  hollow  mockery.     Mark,  how  wisest 

God 
Draws  to  one  point  the  threads  of  a  just 

doom, 
So  sanctifying  it :   what  you  devise 
Is,  as  it  were,  accomplisht. 

Giacomo.  Is  he  dead? 

Orsino.       His  grave  is  ready.     Know 

that  since  we  met 
Cenci  has  done  an  outrage  to  his  daughter. 
Giacomo.      What  outrage? 
Orsino.  That  she  speaks 

not,  but  you  may 
Conceive  such  half  conjectures  as  I  do, 
From    her   fixt    paleness,    and  the   lofty 

grief 
Of    her    stern    brow    bent    on    the    idle 

air, 
And  her  severe  unmodulated  voice, 
Drowning    both   tenderness   and   dread; 

and  last 
From  this;    that   whilst  her  step-mother 

and  I, 
Bewildered    in     our   horror,    talked     to- 
gether 


With  obscure  hints;   both  self-misunder- 
stood 
And  darkly  guessing,  stumbling,  in  our 

talk, 
Over  the  truth,  and  yet  to  its  revenge, 
She  interrupted  us,  and  with  a  look 
Which  told  before  she  spoke  it,  he  must 

die :    .   .   . 
Giacomo.     It  is  enough.     My  doubts 

are  well  appeased; 
There  is  a  higher  reason  for  the  act 
Than  mine;   there  is  a  holier  judge  than 

me, 
A  more  unblamed  avenger.     Beatrice, 
Who    in   the    gentleness    of    thy    sweet 

youth 
Hast  never  trodden  on  a  worm,  or  bruised 
A  living  flower,  but  thou  hast  pitied  it 
With  needless  tears !     Fair   sister,  thou 

in  whom 
Men  wondered  how  such  loveliness  and 

wisdom 
Did    not    destroy   each   other !    Is   there 

made 
Ravage    of    thee?      O   heart,   I    ask    no 

more 
Justification  !     Shall  I  wait,  Orsino, 
Till  he  return,  and  stab  him  at  the  door? 
Orsino.       Not     so;      some     accident 

might  interpose 
To  rescue  him  from  what  is  now  most  sure; 
And  you  are  unprovided  where  to  fly, 
How    to    excuse    or    to    conceal.     Nay, 

listen : 
All    is    contrived;   success  is  so  assured 
That  .   .   . 

Enter  Beatrice. 
Beatrice.      'T  is  my  brother's   voice ! 

You  know  me  not? 
Giacomo.     My  sister,  my  lost  sister  ! 
Beatrice.  Lost  indeed  ! 

I  see  Orsino  has  talkt  with  you,  and 
That  you  conjecture  things  too  horrible 
To    speak,   yet    far   less   than   the   truth. 

Now,  stay  not, 
He  might   return:   yet  kiss  me;    I   shall 

know 
That   then   thou   hast   consented    to    his 

death. 
Farewell,  farewell  !     Let  piety  to  God, 
Brotherly  love,  justice  and  clemency, 
And  all  things  that  make  tender  hardest 

hearts 


THE   CENCI. 


ZV 


Make    thine    hard,     brother.       Answer 
not  .   .   .   farewell. 

{Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II. — A  mean  Apartment  in 
Giacomo's  House.     Giacomo  alone. 

Giacomo.     'T  is  midnight,  and  Orsino 

comes  not  yet. 
[  Thunder,  and  the  sound  of  a  storm. 
What !  can  the  everlasting  elements 
Feel  with  a  worm  like  man?     If  so  the 

shaft 
Of    mercy-winged    lightning  would    not 

fall 
On    stones    and    trees.      My    wife    and 

children  sleep : 
They    are    now    living    in     unmeaning 

dreams : 
But  I  must  wake,  still  doubting  if  that 

deed 
Be  just  which  was  most  necessary.     Oh, 
Thou  unreplenished  lamp  !  whose  narrow 

fire 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind,   and   on  whose 

edge 
Devouring  darkness  hovers  !  Thou  small 

flame, 
Which,  as  a  dying  pulse  rises  and  falls, 
Still  flickerest  up  and  down,   how  very 

soon, 
Did  I  not  feed  thee,  wouldst  thou   fail 

and  be 
As  thou  hadst  never  been  !     So  wastes 

and  sinks 
Even  now,  perhaps,  the  life  that  kindled 

mine : 
But  that  no  power  can  fill  with  vital  oil 
That  broken   lamp    of    flesh.     Ha!    'tis 

the  blood 
Which  fed  these  veins  that  ebbs  till   all 

is  cold : 
It  is  the  form  that  moulded  mine  that 

sinks 
Into    the    white    and    yellow   spasms   of 

death : 
It  is  the  soul  by  which  mine  was  arrayed 
In  God's  immortal  likeness  which  now 

stands 
Naked  before  Heaven's  judgment  seat ! 

{A  bell  strikes.)  One  !  Two  ! 

The  hours  crawl  on;    and  when  my  hairs 

are  v.  hite, 


My    son    will    then   perhaps  be   waiting 

thus, 
Tortured   between   just    hate    and   vain 

remorse; 
Chiding  the  tardy  messenger  of  news 
Like    those   which   I   expect.     I   almost 

wish 
He  be  not   dead,   although   my  wrongs 

are  great; 
Yet  ...   't  is  Orsino's  step  .   .   . 
Enter  Orsino. 

Speak ! 
Orsino.  I  am  come 

To  say  he  has  escaped. 

Giacomo.  Escaped ! 

Orsino.  And  safe 

Within  Petrella.     He  past  by  the  spot 
Appointed  for  the  deed  an  hour  too  soon. 
Giacomo.     Are  we  the  fools  of  such 

contingencies? 
And  do  we  waste  in  blind  misgivings  thus 
The  hours  when  we  should  act?     Then 

wind  and  thunder, 
Which  seemed  to  howl  his  knell,  is  the 

loud  laughter 
With   which  Heaven  mocks   our  weak- 
ness !     I  henceforth 
Will  ne'er  repent  of  aught  designed  or 

done 
But  my  repentance. 

Orsino.  See,  the  lamp  is  out. 

Giacomo.       If    no    remorse    is    ours 

when  the  dim  air 
Has    drank    this    innocent     flame,    why 

should  we  quail 
When  Cenci's  life,  that  light  by  which 

ill  spirits 
See  the  worst  deeds  they  prompt,  shall 

sink  for  ever? 
No,  I  am  hardened. 

Orsino.  Why,  what  need  of  this? 

Who  feared  the  pale  intrusion  of  remorse 
In   a   just   deed?     Altho'  our   first  plan 

failed, 
Doubt  not  but  he  will   soon  be  laid  to 

rest. 
But  light  the   lamp;    let  us   not   talk  i' 

the  dark. 
Giacomo  {lighting  the  lamp).        And 

yet   once   quencht  I  cannot    thus 

relume 
My  father's  life:   do  you  not  think  his 

ghost 


332 


THE   CENCI. 


Might  plead  that  argument  with  God? 

Orsino.  Once  gone 

You    cannot    now     recall     your     sister's 

peace; 
Your   own    extinguish!    years    of    youth 

and  hope; 
Nor    your    wife's   bitter    words;    nor    all 

the  taunts 
Which,  from  the   prosperous,  weak  mis- 
fortune takes; 
Nor  your  dead  mother;    nor   .   .    . 

Giacomo.  O,  speak  no  more  ! 

I  am  resolved,  although  this  very  hand 
Must  quench  the  life  that  animated  it. 
Orsino.     There   is   no    need    of    that. 
Listen :   you  know 
Olimpio,  the  castellan  of  Petrella 
In  old  Colonna's  time;    him  whom  your 

father 
Degraded  from  his  post?     And  Marzio, 
That  desperate  wretch,  whom  he  deprived 

last  year 
Of  a  reward   of  blood,  well   earned  and 
due  ? 
Giacomo.      I  knew  Olimpio;    and  they 
say  he  hated 
Old  Cenci  so,  that  in  his  silent  rage 
His  lips  grew  white  only  to  see  him  pass. 
Of  Marzio  I  know  nothing. 

Orsino.  Marzio's  hate 

Matches  Olimpio's.     I  have  sent    these 

men, 
But  in  your  name,  and  as  at  your  request, 
To  talk  with  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 
Giacomo.      Only  to  talk? 
Orsino.  The  moments 

which  even  now 
Bass    onward    to    to-morrow's    midnight 

hour 
May   memorize    their   flight   with  death: 

ere  then 
They  must   have   talkt,  and   may  perhaps 

have  done, 
And  made  an  end  .    .    . 

Giacomo.  Listen  !      What 

sound  is  that  ? 
Orsino.     The    house-dog    moans,   and 

the  beams  crack:    nought  else. 
Giacomo.      It   is  my  wife   complaining 
in  her  sleep : 
I  doubt  not  she  is  saying  bitter  things 
Of  me;    and   all   my  children  round  her 
dreaming 


That  I  deny  them  sustenance. 

Orsino.  Whilst  he 

Who   truly  took  it   from    them,  and  who 

fills 
Their   hungry  rest   with   bitterness,   now 

sleeps 
Lapt    in    bad    pleasures,    and    triumph- 
antly 
Mocks  thee  in  visions  of  successful  hate 
Too  like  the  truth  of  day. 

Giacomo.  If  e'er  he  wakes 

Again,     I    will     not     trust     to     hireling 
hands   .   .    . 
Orsino.     Why,  that  were  well.     I  must 
be  gone;    good-night: 
When  next  we  meet  —  may  all  be  done  ! 
Giacomo.  And  all 

Forgotten :   Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  ! 
[  Exeunt. 

END   OF   THE   THIRD   ACT. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE   I.  —  An    Apartment   in   the 
Castle  of  Petrella.     Enter  Cenci. 

Cenci.     She  comes  not;    yet  I  left  her 
even  now 

Vanquisht    and    faint.     She    knows    the 
penalty 

Of  her   delay :     yet   what   if    threats    are 
vain? 

Ami  not  now  within  Petrella's  moat  ? 

Or  fear  I  still  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Rome  ? 

Might  I  not  drag  her  by  the  golden  hair  ? 

Stamp  on  her?      Keep  her  sleepless   till 
her  brain 

Be    overworn?      Tame   her   with    chains 
and  famine  ? 

Less  would  suffice.      Yet  so  to  leave  un- 
done 

What  I  most  seek  !     No,  't  is  her  stubborn 
will 

Which  by  its  own  consent  shall  stoop  as 
low 

As  that  which  drags  it  down. 
Enter  LUCRETIA. 

Thou  loathed  wretch ! 

Hide  thee   from  my  abhorrence;    fly,  be- 
gone ! 

Yet  stay  !     Bid  Beatrice  come  hither. 


THE    CENCI. 


333 


Liter  etia. 


Husband  !   I  pray  for  thine  own  wretched 

sake 
Heed  what  thou  dost.      A  man  who  walks 

like  thee 
Thro'  crimes,  and  thro'  the  danger  of  his 

crimes, 


Oh,    [   I  must  give  up  the  greater  point,  which 


To  poison  and  corrupt  her  soul. 

[A  pause  :  LUCRETIA  approaches  anx- 
iously, and  then  shrinks  bach  as 
he  speaks. 

One,  two; 

Each  hour  may    stumble   o'er   a  sudden      Ay  .   .    .   Rocco  and  Cristofano  my  curse 

grave.  i   Strangled:     and    Giacomo,   I    think,  will 

And   thou   art   old;    thy   hairs   are  hoary  find 


gray ; 
As  thou  wouldst  save  thyself   from  death 
and  bell, 


Life  a  worse  Hell  .than  that   beyond  the 

grave: 
Beatrice  shall,  if  there  be  skill  in  hate, 


Pity    thy    daughter;     give    her    to    some       Die    in    despair,    blaspheming:    to    Ber- 


friend 


nardo, 


In  marriage:   so  that  she  may  tempt  thee      He  is  so  innocent,  I  will  bequeath 


not 


To   hatred,  or   worse   thoughts,   if   worse 
there  be. 
Cenci.     What  !   like  her  sister  who  has   j 
found  a  home 
To  mock  my  hate  from  with   prosperity  ? 
Strange  ruin  shall   destroy  both  her  and   !  When  all  is  done,  out  in  the   wide  Cam 


The  memory  of    these  deeds,  and  make 

his  youth 
j  The     sepulchre    of     hope,     where     evil 

thoughts 
;   Shall    grow    like  weeds  on  a    neglected 

tomb. 


the 


pagna, 


And  all  that  yet  remain.     My  death  may   \   I  will  pile  up  my  silver  and  my  gold; 


Rapid,  her  destiny  outspeeds  it.     Go, 


My   costly    robes,    paintings,   and  tapes- 
tries; 


Bid  her  come  hither,  and  before  my  mood   ;   My   parchments   and   all  records   of    my 
Be  changed,   lest   I   should   drag   her   by 
the  hair. 
Lucretia.     She  sent  me  to  thee,  hus-   I  Of  my  possessions  nothing  but  my  name; 


wealth, 
And  make  a  bonfire  in  my  joy,  and  leave 


band.     At  thy  presence 


Which  shall  be  an  inheritance  to  strip 


She  fell,  as  thou  dost  know,  into  a  trance;       Its  wearer  bare  as  infamy.     That  done, 
And  in  that  trance  she  heard  a  voice  which      My  soul,  which   is   a   scourge,  will    I  re- 


Cenci  must  die  !      Let  him  confess  him- 
self ! 


Into  the  hands  of  him  who  wielded  it; 
Be  it  for  its  own  punishment  or  theirs, 


Even  now   the  accusing   Angel  waits   to      He  will  not  ask  it  of  me  till  the  lash 


hear 
If  God,  to  punish  his  enormous  crimes, 
Harden  his  dying  heart !  " 

Cenci.  '    Why  —  such 

things  are   .    .    . 
No  doubt  divine  revealings  may  be  made. 
'T  is    plain   I   have    been    favored    from 

above, 
For  when  I  curst  my  sons  they  died.  — 

Ay   .    .    .   so   .    .    . 
As  to  the  right  or  wrong  that 's  talk  .   .   . 

repentance   .    .    . 
Repentance  is  an  easy  moment's  work, 
And    more    depends    on    God  than    me. 

Well  .   .   .  well  .    .   . 


Be  broken  in  its  last  and  deepest  wound; 
Until  its  hate  be  all  inflicted.      Yet, 
Lest   death   outspeed  my  purpose,  let  me 

make 
Short  work  and  sure  ...  [  Going. 

Lucretia.     (Stops  him.)         Oh,  stay  ! 

It  was  a  feint : 
She    had    no  vision,   and    she    heard  no 

voice. 
I  said  it  but  to  awe  thee. 

Cenci.  That  is  well. 

Vile    palterer  with    the    sacred    truth  of 

God, 
Be  thy  sour  choked  with  that  blaspheming 

lie! 


334 


THE    CENCI. 


For  Beatrice  worse  terrors  are  in  store 
To  bend  her  to  my  will. 

Lucretia.  Oh!  to  what  will? 

What  cruel  sufferings  more  than  she  has 

known 
Canst  thou  inflict? 

Ccnci.    Andrea  !   Go  call  my  daughter, 
And  if  she  comes    not   tell   her   that  I 

come. 
What  sufferings?      I  will  drag   her,  step 

by  step, 
Thro'  infamies  unheard  of   among  men : 
She  shall  stand  shelterless  in  the  broad 

noon 
Of     public    scorn,     for    acts     blazoned 

abroad, 
One  among  which  shall  be  .    .   .   What  ? 

Canst  thou  guess? 
She   shall  become   (for   what    she   most 

abhors 
Shall  have  a  fascination  to  entrap 
Her  loathing  will)  to  her  own  conscious 

self 
All  she  appears  toothers;  and  when  dead, 
As  she   shall  die  unshrived   and  unfor- 

given, 
A  rebel  to  her  father  and  her  God, 
Her  corpse  shall  be   abandoned  to   the 

hounds; 
Her    name    shall    be    the   terror    of   the 

earth; 
Her  spirit  shall  approach  the   throne  of 

God 
Plague-spotted  with  my  curses.     I  will 

make 
Body  and  soul  a  monstrous  lump  of  ruin. 
Enter  Andrea. 
Andrea.     The  Lady  Beatrice   .   .    . 
Cenci.  Speak,   pale 

slave !     What 
Said  she? 

Andrea.      My  Lord,  't  was  what   she 

lookt;    she  said: 
"  Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of   Hell  between  us  two,  which  he  may 

pass, 
I  will  not."  [Exit  Andrea. 

Cenci.  Go  thou  quick,  Lucretia, 

Tell  her  to  come;  yet  let  her  understand 
Her  coming  is   consent:  and   say,  more- 
over, 
That  if   she  come  not  I  will  cfirse  her. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 


Ha.' 

With  what  but  with  a  father's  curse  doth 

God 
Panic-strike    armed    victory,   and    make 

pale 
Cities  in  their  prosperity?     The  world's 

Father 
Must  grant  a  parent's  prayer  against  his 

child 
Be  he  who  asks  even  what  men  call  me. 
Will    not    the    deaths  of    her    rebellious 

brothers 
Awe  her  before  I  speak?     For  I  on  them 
Did  imprecate  quick  ruin,  and  it  came. 

Enter  Lucretia. 
Well;    what?     Speak,  wretch  ! 

Lucretia.  She  said, 

"  I  cannot  come; 
Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  a  torrent 
Of  his  own  blood  raging  between  us." 

Cenci  (kneeling).  God! 

Hear   me  !     If  this  most  specious  mass 

of  flesh, 
Which    thou    hast    made    my  daughter; 

this  my  blood, 
This  particle  of  my  divided  being; 
Or  rather,  this  my  bane  and  my  disease, 
Whose    sight    infects    and    poisons    me; 

this  devil 
Which  sprung  from  me  as  from  a  hell, 

was  meant 
To  aught  good  use;  if  her  bright  loveli- 
ness 
Was     kindled    to    illumine     this     dark 

world; 
If  nurst  by  thy  selectest  dew  of  love 
Such   virtues    blossom   in   her  as  should 

make 
The   peace  of    life,  I   pray   thee   for   my 

sake, 
As    thou    the   common  God  and  Father 

art 
Of  her,   and   me,  and   all;    reverse   that 

doom  ! 
Earth,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  her  food 

be 
Poison,  until  she  be  encrusted  round 
With  leprous  stains  !     Heaven,  rain  upon 

her  head 
The  blistering  drops  of  the   Maremma's 

dew, 
Till  she  be  speckled   like   a  toad;    parch 

up 


THE    CENCI. 


335 


Those    love-enkindled   lips,  warp   those 
fine  limbs 

To    loathed    lameness !       All-beholding 
sun, 

Strike    in  thine  envy  those    life-darting 
eyes 

With  thine  own  blinding  beams  ! 

Lucretia.  Peace  !     Peace  ! 

For  thine  own  sake   unsay  those  dread- 
ful words. 

When  high  God  grants  he  punishes  such 
prayers. 
Cenci  (leaping  up,  and  throwing  his 
right  hand  towards  Heaven  ) .  He 
does  his  will,  I  mine  !  This  in 
addition, 

That  if   she  have  a  child   .    .    . 

Lucretia.  Horrible  thought ! 

Cenci.    That  if  she  ever  have  a  child; 
and  thou, 

Quick    Nature !     I    adjure    thee    by   thy 
God, 

That   thou    be    fruitful    in    her,   and  in- 
crease 

And  multiply,  fulfilling  his  command, 

And  my  deep  imprecation  !     May  it  be 

A  hideous  likeness  of  herself,  that  as 

From  a  distorting  mirror,  she  may  see 

Her    image    mixt    with    what    she   most 
abhors, 

Smiling    upon    her    from    her    nursing 
breast. 

And  that  the  child  may  from  its  infancy 

Grow,    day    by    day,  more   wicked    and 
deformed, 

Turning  her  mother's  love  to  misery: 

And     that     both     she    and    it    may    live 
until 

It    shall    repay  her   care   and  pain   with 
hate, 

Or  what  may  else  be  more  unnatural. 

So  he  may  hunt  her  through  the  clamor- 
ous scoffs 

Of    the    loud    world    to    a    dishonored 
grave. 

Shall  I  revoke  this  curse?     Go,  bid  her 
come, 

Before    my    words    are     chronicled    in 
Heaven. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 

I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  were  a  man, 

But  like  a  fiend  appointed  to  chastise 


j  The     offences    of     some     unremembered 

world. 
|  My  blood   is  running  up  and  down  my 
veins; 
A    fearful    pleasure   makes  it   prick    and 
tingle : 
:   I  feel  a  giddy  sickness  of  strange  awe; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  an  expectation 
Of  horrid  joy. 

Enter  Lucretia. 

What?     Speak! 
Lucretia.  She  bids  thee  curse; 

,  And  if  thy  curses,  as  they  cannot  do, 
:  Could  kill  her  soul  .   .   . 

Cenci.  She  would  not 

come.      'T  is  well, 
I  can  do  both :  first  take  what  I  demand, 
And  then    extort    concession.      To   thy 

chamber  ! 
Fly  ere   I  spurn  thee :   and  beware  this 

night 
That    thou  cross   not   my   footsteps.     It 
were  safer 
i  To  come  between  the  tiger  and  his  prey. 
[Exit  Lucretia. 
;   It  must  be  late;    mine  eyes  grow  weary 
dim 
With  unaccustomed  heaviness  of  sleep. 
Conscience  !     Oh,  thou  most  insolent  of 

lies  ! 
They  say  that  sleep,  that  healing  dew  of 

Heaven, 
Steeps   not  in  balm  the  foldings  of  the 
brain 
|   Which  thinks  thee  an  impostor.     I  will 

g° 
!   First  to  belie  thee  with  an  hour  of  rest, 
I   Which  will  be    deep  and  calm,  I   feel : 
and  then   .    .    . 
O,    multitudinous    Hell,  the   fiends  will 

shake 
Thine  arches  with  the  laughter  of  their 

There    shall    be    lamentation    heard    in 

Heaven 
As    o'er    an    angel    fallen;    and    upon 

Earth 
All  good  shall  droop  and  sicken,  and  ill 
things 
i   Shall  with  a  spirit  of  unnatural  life 
'   Stir  and  be   quickened  .   .   .  even   as  I 
am  now.  [Exit. 


336 


THE   CENCI. 


SCENE  II.  —  Before  the  Castle  of 
Petrella.  Enter  Beatrice  and 
Lucretia  above  on  the  Ramparts. 

Beatrice.     They  come  not  yet. 
Lucretia.  'T  is  scarce  midnight. 

Beatrice.  How  slow 

Behind  the  course  of  thought,  even  sick 

with  speed, 
Lags  leaden-footed  time  ! 

Lucretia.  The  minutes  pass  .   .   . 

If    he  should   wake  before   the   deed  is 

done? 

Beatrice.     O  mother  !   He  must  never 

wake  again. 

What  thou  hast  said  persuades  me  that 

our  act 
Will  but  dislodge  a  spirit  of  deep  hell 
Out  of  a  human  form. 

Lucretia.  'T  is  true  he  spoke 

Of     death    and    judgment    with    strange 

confidence 
P^or  one  so  wicked;    as  a  man  believing 
In  God,  yet  recking  not  of  good  or  ill. 
And  yet  to  die  without  confession  !   .    .   . 
Beatrice.  Oh ! 

Believe   that    Heaven    is    merciful    and 

just, 
And  will  not  add  our  dread  necessity 
To  the  amount  of  his  offences. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Marzio,  below. 
Lucretia.  See, 

They  come. 
Beatrice.  All  mortal  things  must 

hasten  thus 
To  their  dark  end.     Let  us  go  down. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia   and   Bea- 
trice from  above. 
Olimpio.     How  feel  you  to  this  work? 
Marzio.  As  one  who  thinks 

A     thousand     crowns    excellent     market 

price 
For  an  old  murderer's  life.      Your  cheeks 
are  pale. 
Olimpio.      It  is  the  white  reflection  of 
your  own, 
Which  you  call  pale. 

Marzio.      Is  that  their  natural  hue? 
Olimpio.     Or   't   is   my  hate    and   the 
deferred  desire 
To  wreak    it,    which    extinguishes    their 
blood. 


Marzio.     You    are    inclined    then    to 

this  business? 
Olimpio.  Ay. 

If  one  should  bribe  me  with  a  thousand 

crowns 
To    kill  a  serpent   which  had  stung  my 

child, 
I  could  not  be  more  willing. 
Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia,  below. 
Noble  ladies  ! 
Beatrice.      Are  ye  resolved? 
Olimpio.  Is  he  asleep? 

Marzio.  Is  all 

Quiet? 

Lucretia.  I   mixt   an  opiate   with 

his  drink : 
He  sleeps  so  soundly   .    .    . 

Beatrice.  That  his  death  will  be 

But  as  a  change  of  sin-chastising  dreams, 
A  dark   continuance   of   the    Hell  within 

him, 
Which    God    extinguish !      But    ye    are 

resolved? 
Ye  know  it  is  a  high  and  holy  deed? 
Olimpio.      We  are  resolved. 
Marzio.  As  to  the  how  this  act 

Be  warranted    it  rests  with  you. 

Beatrice.  Well,  follow  ! 

Olimpio.      Hush  !  Hark  !     What  noise 

is  that? 
Marzio.  Ha  !   some  one  comes  ! 

Beatrice.        Ye     conscience  -  stricken 
cravens,  rock  to  rest 
Your  baby  hearts.      It  is  the  iron  gate, 
Which  ye  left  open,  swinging  to  the  wind, 
That  enters  whistling  as  in  scorn.    Come, 

follow  ! 
And    be    your    steps     like     mine,    light, 
quick  and  bold. 

[  Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  An  Apartment  in  the 
Castle  Enter     Beatrice      and 

Lucretia. 

Lucretia.     They  are  about  it  now. 
Beatrice.  Nay,  it  is  done. 

Lucretia.      I  have  not  heard  him  groan. 
Beatrice.  He  will  not  groan. 

Lucretia.     What  sound  is  that? 
Beatrice.  List !    't  is  the 

tread  of   feet 
About  his  bed. 


THE    CENCI. 


Lucretia.  My  God  ! 

If  he  be  now  a  cold  stiff  corpse  .    .   . 

Beatrice.  O,  fear  not 

What    may    be    done,   but  what    is    left 

undone : 
The  act  seals  all. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

Is  it  accomplished? 
Marzio.  What  ? 

Olimpio.     Did  you  not  call? 
Beatrice.  When? 

Olimpio.  Now. 

Beatrice.  I  ask  if  all  is  over? 

Olimpio.     We    dare    not    kill    an  old 
and  sleeping  man; 
His  thin  gray  hair,  his  stern  and  reverent 

brow, 
His  veined  hands  crosst  on  his  heaving 

breast, 
And  the  calm  innocent  sleep  in  which 

he  lay, 
Quelled  me.     Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot 
do  it. 
Marzio.     But  I  was  bolder;  for  I  chid 
Olimpio, 
And   bade    him  bear  his  wrongs  to    his 

own  grave 
And    leave  me    the   reward.     And  now 

my  knife 
Toucht  the  loose  wrinkled  throat,  when 

the  old  man 
Stirred  in  his   sleep,  and  said,    "God! 

hear,  O,  hear, 
A  father's   curse  !     What,  art   thou   not 

our  father?  " 
And    then    he    laught.     I    knew    it    was 

the  ghost 
Of  my  dead  father  speaking  through  his 

lips, 
And  could  not  kill  him. 

Beatrice.  Miserable  slaves  ! 

Where,  if  ye  dare  not  kill  a  sleeping  man, 
Found  ye  the  boldness  to  return  to  me 
With  such  a  deed  undone?      Base  pal- 

terers  ! 
Cowards   and  traitors  !      Why,   the  very 

conscience 
Which   ye   would   sell    for  gold   and    for 

revenge 
Is  an  equivocation :    it  sleeps  over 
A  thousand  daily  acts  disgracing  men; 
And  when   a   deed  where   mercy  insults 
Heaven   .   .   . 


Why  do  I  talk? 

[Snatching  a  dagger  from  one  of  then 
and  raising  it. 

Hadst  thou  a  tongue  to  say. 
She  murdered   her  own    father,   I    must 

do  it ! 
But    never   dream   ye    shall   outlive  him 
long! 
Olimpio.     Stop,  for  God's  sake  ! 
Marzio.  I  will  go  back  and 

kill  him. 
Olimpio.      Give    me   the   weapon,   we 

must  do  thy  will. 

Beatrice.     Take  it  !   Depart !   Return  ! 

[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

How  i  ale  thou  art ! 

We  Jo  but  that  which  't  were  a  deadly 

crime 
To  leave  undone. 

Lucretia.  Would  it  were  done  ! 

Beatrice.  Even  whilst 

That    doubt    is    passing    through    your 

mind,  the  world 
Is    conscious    of    a    change.      Darkness 

and  Hell 
Have  swallowed  up  the  vapor  they  sent 

forth 
To  blacken  the  sweet  light  of  life.     My 

breath 
Comes,  methinks,  lighter,  and  the  jellied 

blood 
Runs  freely  thro'  my  veins.      Hark  ! 
Enter  OLIMPIO  and  Marzio. 

He  is  .  .  . 
Olimpio.  Dead ! 

Marzio.      We     strangled     him     that 
there  might  be  no  blood; 
'  And  then  we  threw  his  heavy  corpse  i' 
the  garden 
Under  th^  balcony;    't  will  seem  it  fell. 
Beatrice  (giving  them  a  bag  of  coin). 
Here,  take  this  gold,  and  hasten 
to  your  homes. 
And,  Marzio,  because  thou  wast  only  awed 
By  that  which  made  me  tremble,  wear 
thou  this  ! 

[  Clothes  him  in  a  rich  mantle. 
It  was  the  mantle  which  my  grandfather 
Wore  in  his  high  prosperity,  and  men 
Envied    his    state :     so    may    they    envy 
thine. 
j  Thou    wert    a   weapon   in    the    hand    of 
!  God 


338 


THE   CENCI. 


To  a  just  use.     Live   long  and   thrive  ! 

And,  mark, 
If   thou  hast   crimes,   repent :   this   deed 
is  none. 

[A  horn  is  sounded. 
Lucretia.     Hark,  't  is  the  castle  horn; 
my  God  !   it  sounds 
Like  the  last  trump. 

Beatrice.  Some  tedious  guest 

is  coming. 
Lucretia.      The    drawbridge     is     let 
down;    there  is  a  tramp 
Of  horses   in  the  court;    fly,  hide  your- 
selves ! 
[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 
Beatrice.     Let  us  retire  to  counterfeit 
deep  rest; 
I  scarcely  need  to  counterfeit  it  now : 
The  spirit  which  doth  reign  within  these 

limbs 
Seems   strangely   undisturbed.     I   could 

even  sleep 
Fearless  and  calm:   all  ill  is  surely  past. 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Apartment 
in  the  Castle.  Enter  on  one  side 
the  Legate  Savella,  introduced 
by  a  Servant,  and  on  the  other 
Lucretia  and  Bernardo. 

Savella.  Lady,  my  duty  to  his  Holiness 
Be  my  excuse  that  thus  unseasonably 
I  break  upon  your  rest.     I  must  speak 

with 
Count  Cenci;    doth  he  sleep? 

Lucretia  (in  a  hurried  and  confused 

manner').  I  think  he  sleeps; 

Yet   wake    him    not,    I    pray,   spare    me 

awhile, 
He  is  a  wicked  and  a  wrathful  man; 
Should   he   be   roused   out    of   his   sleep 

to-night, 
Which    is,    I     know,    a   hell    of    angry 

dreams, 
It  were  not  well;  indeed  it  were  not  well. 
Wait  till  day  break  .  .  .  (aside)  O,  I  am 

deadly  sick  ! 
Savella.      I  grieve  thus  to  distress  you, 

but  the  Count 
Must     answer     charges    of     the    gravest 

import, 
And   suddenly;    such   my  commission  is. 


Lucretia    (with   increased  agitation), 

I   dare   not   rouse   him:    I    know 

none  who  dare  .  .  . 
'T  were    perilous;    .  .  .  you     might    as 

safely  waken 
A  serpent;    or  a  corpse   in  which   some 

fiend 
Were  laid  to  sleep. 

Savella.  Lady,  my  moments  here 

Are  counted.     I   must   rouse   him   from 

his  sleep, 
Since  none  else  dare. 

Lucretia  (aside).     O,  terror!    O,  de- 
spair ! 
(  To  Bernardo)  Bernardo,   conduct  you 

the  Lord  Legate  to 
Your  father's  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Savella  and  Bernardo. 
Enter  Beatrice. 
Beatrice.  'T  is  a  messenger 

Come    to    arrest    the    culprit    who    now 

stands 
Before  the  throne  of  unappealable  God. 
Both    Earth    and    Heaven,    consenting 

arbiters, 
Acquit  our  deed. 

Lucretia.  Oh,  agony  of  fear  ! 

Would  that   he   yet   might   live  !     Even 

now  I  heard 
The  Legate's  followers  whisper  as  they 

past 
They  had  a  warrant  for  his  instant  death. 
All  was  prepared  by  unforbidden  means 
Which   we    must   pay  so   dearly,   having 

done. 
Even   now  they  search    the   tower,  and 

find  the  body; 
Now  they   suspect   the   truth;    now  they 

consult 
Before    they   come    to    tax    us  with   the 

fact : 
O,  horrible,  "t  is  all  discovered  ! 

Beatrice.  Mother, 

What  is  done  wisely,  is  done  well.      Be 

bold 
As  thou    art  just.      'T  is  like    a    truant 

child 
To  fear  that  others  know  what  thou  hast 

done, 
Even  from  thine  own  strong  conscious- 
ness, and  thus 
Write    on    unsteady    eyes    and    altered 

cheeks 


THE    CENCI. 


139 


All  thou  wouldst  hide.     Be   faithful   to 

thyself, 
And  fear  no  other  witness  but  thy  fear. 
For  if,  as  cannot  be,  some  circumstance 
Should  rise  in  accusation,  we  can  blind 
Suspicion  with  such  cheap  astonishment, 
Or  overbear  it  with  such  guiltless  pride, 
As  murderers  cannot  feign.     The  deed 

is  done, 
And  what  may  follow  now  regards  not 

me. 
I  am  as  universal  as  the  light; 
Free  as  the  earth-surrounding  air;  as  firm 
As    the    world's    centre.     Consequence, 

to  me, 
Is  as  the  wind  which  strikes  the  solid 

rock 
But  shakes  it  not. 

\A  cry  within  and  tumult. 
Voices.     Murder  !    Murder  !    Murder  ! 
Enter  Bernardo  and  Savella. 
Savella  (to  his  followers).     Go  search 
the     castle     round;      sound     the 
alarm; 
Look  to  the  gates  that  none  escape  ! 
Beatrice.  What  now? 

Bernardo.       I     know     not    what     to 

say  .  .  .  my  father's  dead. 
Beatrice.    How;  dead  !  he  only  sleeps; 
you  mistake,  brother. 
His  sleep  is  very  calm,  very  like  death; 
'Tis     wonderful     how     well    a    tyrant 

sleeps. 
He  is  not  dead? 

Bernardo.  Dead;    murdered. 

Lucre  tin     (with     extreme     agitation}. 
Oh  no,  no, 
He  is  not  murdered  though  he  may  be 

dead; 
I  have  alone  the  keys  of  those  apartments. 
Savella.     Ha!     Is  it  so? 
Beatrice.  My  Lord,  I 

pray  excuse  us; 
We  will  retire;    my  mother  is  not  well: 
She    seems    quite    overcome    with    this 
strange  horror. 
[Exeunt  LUCRETIA  and  BEATRICE. 
Savella.     Can    you  suspect   who  may 

have  murdered  him? 
Bernardo.       I     know     not     what     to 

think. 
Savella.  Can  you  name  any 

Who  had  an  interest  in  his  death? 


Bernardo.  Alas ! 

I  can  name  none  who  had  not,  and  those 

most 
Who  most   lament   that  such  a  deed  is 

done; 
My  mother,  and  my  sister,  and  myself. 
Savella.      T  is  strange  !     There  were 
clear  marks  of  violence. 
I  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the  moon- 
light 
Hanging    beneath    the    window    of    his 

chamber, 
Among    the    branches    of    a    pine :   he 

could  not 
Have  fallen  there,  for  all  his  limbs  lay 

heapt 
And  effortless;    't  is  true   there  was  no 

blood  .   .   . 
Favor   me,    Sir;    it  much  imports   your 

house 
That  all  should  be  made  clear;  to  tell 

the  ladies 
That  I  request  their  presence. 

[Exit  Bernardo. 

Enter  Guards  bringing  in  Marzio. 

Guard.  We  have  one. 

Officer.     My    Lord,    we    found    this 

ruffian  and  another 

Lurking  among  the   rocks;   there  is  no 

doubt 
But  that  they  are  the  murderers  of  Count 

Cenci: 
Each  had  a  bag  of  coin;  this  fellow  wore 
A    gold-inwoven    robe,    which    shining 

bright 
Under  the  dark  rocks  to  the  glimmering 

moon 
Betrayed  them  to  our  notice:  the  othei 

fell 
Desperately  fighting. 

Savella.  What  does  he  confess? 

Officer.     He    keeps  firm  silence;   but 
these  lines  found  on  him 
May  speak. 

Savella.     Their    language  is  at    least 
sincere.  [Reads. 

"To  the  Lady  Beatrice.  —  That 
the  atonement  of  what  my  nature  sickens 
to  conjecture  may  soon  arrive,  I  send 
thee,  at  thy  brother's  desire,  those  who 
will  speak  and  do  more  than  I  dare 
write.  .   .   .     Thy  devoted  servant, 

"  Orsino.' 


340 


THE    CENCI. 


Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and 
Bernardo. 
Knowest  thou  this  writing,  Lady? 
Beatrice.  No. 

Savella.  Nor  thou? 

Lucretia.     (Her  conduct  throughout  the 
scene  is  marked  by  extreme  agita- 
tion.}      Where     was    it    found? 
What  is  it?     It  should  be 
Orsino's  hand  !     It  speaks  of  that  strange 

horror 
Which  never   yet    found    utterance,   but 

which  made 
Between  that  hapless  child  and  her  dead 

father 
A  gulf  of  obscure  hatred. 

Savella.  Is  it  so? 

Is  it  true,  Lady,  that  thy  father  did 
Such  outrages  as  to  awaken  in  thee 
Unfiiial  hate? 

Beatrice.     Not  hate,  't  was  more  than 
hate: 
This  is  most  true,  yet  wherefore  question 
me? 
Savella.     There  is  a  deed  demanding 
question  done; 
Thou   hast   a  secret  which    will    answer 
not. 
Beatrice.     What    sayest?     My    Lord, 

your  words  are  bold  and  rash. 
Savella.     I   do    arrest    all    present   in 
the  name 
Of  the  Pope's  Holiness.     You  must  to 
Rome. 
Lucretia.     O,  not  to  Rome  !      Indeed 

we  are  not  guilty. 
Beatrice.     Guilty !       Who    dares    talk 
of  guilt?     My  Lord, 
I  am  more  innocent  of  parricide 
Than   is    a    child    born    fatherless.    .    .   . 

Dear  mother, 
Your    gentleness    and    patience     are    no 

shield 
For   this   keen-judging  world,    this  two- 
edged  lie, 
Which   seems,   but    is  not.      What  !   will 

human  laws, 
Rather  will  ye  who  are  their  ministers, 
Bar  all  access  to  retribution  first, 
And  then,  when   Heaven  doth   interpose 

to  do 
What  ye  neglect,  arming  familiar  things 
To  the  redress  of  an  unwonted  crime, 


Make  ye  the  victims  who  demanded  it 
Culprits?     'T  is  ye   are   culprits!     That 

poor  wretch 
Who  stands  so  pale,  and  trembling,  and 

amazed, 
If  it  be  true  he  murdered  Cenci,  was 
A    sword    in    the   right   hand   of   justest 

God. 
Wherefore    should    I    have    wielded    it? 

Unless 
The    crimes    which   mortal    tongue  dare 

never  name 
God  therefore  scruples  to  avenge. 

Savella.  You  own 

That  you  desired  his  death? 

Beatrice.  It  would  have  been 

A    crime    no    less    than  his,   if    for  one 

moment 
That  fierce  desire  had  faded  in  my  heart. 
'T  is  true   I  did  believe,  and  hope,  and 

pray, 
Ay,  I   even  knew   .    .    .   for  God  is  wise 

and  just, 
That    some  strange   sudden   death  hung 

over  him. 
'T  is    true    that    this    did    happen,    and 

most  true 
There  was  no  other  rest  for  me  on  earth, 
No  other  hope  in  Heaven  .    .    .  now  what 

of  this? 
Savella.       Strange      thoughts      beget 

strange     deeds;      and    here    are 

both: 
I  judge  thee  not. 

Beatrice.  And  yet,  if  you  arrest 

me, 
You  are  the  judge  and  executioner 
Of   that   which  is   the   life  of    life:    the 

breath 
Of  accusation  kills  an  innocent  name, 
And  leaves    for  lame   acquittal   the  poor 

life 
Which  is  a  mask  without  it.      'T  is  most 

false 
That  I  am  guilty  of  foul  parricide; 
Although     I     must     rejoice,    for     justest 

cause, 
That  other  hands   have  sent  my  father's 

soul 
To  ask  the  mercy  he  denied  to  me. 
Now    leave    us  free;    stain   not    a   noble 

house 
With  vague  surmises  of  rejected  crime; 


THE    CENCL 


341 


Add    to    our    sufferings     and     your   own 

neglect 
No  heavier    sum:    let   them    have    been 

enough : 
Leave  us  the  wreck  we  have. 

Savclla.  I  dare  not,  Lady. 

I   pray  that   you  prepare   yourselves   for 

Rome : 
There   the    Pope's   further  pleasure   will 

be  known. 
Lucrctia.     O,  not  to  Rome  !     O,  take 

us  not  to  Rome  ! 
Beatrice.      Why    not    to    Rome,    dear 

mother?     There  as  here 
Our  innocence  is  as  an  armed  heel 
To  trample  accusation.     God  is  there 
As     here,    and    with    his    shadow    ever 

clothes 
The  innocent,  the  injured  and  the  weak; 
And     such     are     we.      Cheer     up,     dear 

Lady,  lean 
On  me;  collect  your  wandering  thoughts. 

My  Lord, 
As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  refresh- 
ment, 
And  had  all  such  examinations  made 
Upon  the  spot,  as  may  be  necessary 
To  the  full  understanding  of  this  matter, 
We   shall   be  ready.     Mother;  will  you 

come  ? 
Lucretia.     Ha  !  they  will  bind  us  to 

the  rack,  and  wrest 
Self-accusation  from  our  agony  ! 
Will      Giacomo      be      there?       Orsino? 

Marzio? 
All  present;  all  confronted;  all  demand- 
ing 
Each  from  the  other's   countenance  the 

thing 
Which  is  in  every  heart  !   O,  misery  ! 

[She  faints,  and  is  borne  out. 
Savclla.      She    faints:    an    ill   appear- 
ance this. 
Beatrice.  My  Lord, 

She     knows     not     vet     the    uses   of    the 

world. 
She  fears  that  power  is  as  a  beast  which 

grasps 
And   loosens    not :    a  snake   whose   look 

transmutes 
All  things  to  guilt  which  is  its  nutriment. 
She   cannot   know   how  well   the  supine 

slaves 


Of     blind    authority    read     the    truth    of 

things 
When  written  on  a  brow  of  guilelcssness: 
She  sees  not  yet  triumphant  Innocence 
Stand    at   the    judgment-seat    of     mortal 

man, 
A  judge  and  an  accuser  of  the  wrong 
Which  drags  it  there.      Prepare  yourself, 

my  Lord; 
Our  suite  will  join  yours  in  the  court  be- 
low. \_Exeunt. 

END   OF   THE    FOURTH    ACT. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  Or- 
sino's  Palace.  Enter  Orsino  and 
Giacomo. 

Giacomo.     Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly 
come  to  end  ? 
O,  that    the    vain    remorse    which    must 

chastise 
Crimes  done,  had  but  as  loud  a  voice  to 

warn 
As  its  keen  sting  is  mortal  to  avenge  ! 
O,  that  the  hour  when  present  had  cast 

off 
The  mantle  of  its  mystery,  and  shown 
The  ghastly  form  with  which  it  now  re- 
turns 
When  its  scared  game  is  roused,  cheering 

the  hounds 
Of  conscience  to  their  prey  !  Alas  !  Alas  ! 
i   It  was  a  wicked  thought,  a  piteous  deed, 
I   To  kill  an  old  and  hoary-headed  father. 
Orsino.      It  has  turned  out  unluckily, 

in  truth. 

Giacomo.     To  violate  the  sacred  doors 

of  sleep; 

To  cheat  kind  nature  of  the  placid  death 

Which  she  prepares  for  overwearied  age; 

To   drag    from    Heaven   an    unrepentant 

soul 
Which   might  have  quencht  in  reconcil- 
ing prayers 
A  life  of  burning  crimes   .   .   , 

Orsino.  You  cannot  say 

I  urged  you  to  the  deed. 

Giacomo.  O,  had  I  never 

Found    in   thy  smooth  and  ready   coun- 
i  tenance 


34< 


THE    CENCI. 


The    mirror    of    my    darkest    thoughts; 

hadst  thou 
Never  with  hints  and  questions  made  me 

look 
Upon  the  monster  of  my  thought,  until 
It  grew  familiar  to  desire   .   .   . 

Orsino,  'T  is  thus 

Men  cast  the  blame  of  their  unprosper- 

ous  acts 
Upon  the  abettors  of  their  own  resolve; 
Or  anything  but  their  weak,  guilty  selves. 
And  yet,  confess  the  truth,  it  is  the  peril 
In  which  you  stand  that  gives  you   this 

pale  sickness 
Of  penitence;  confess  't  is  fear  disguised 
From  its  own  shame  that  takes  the  man- 
tle now 
Of  thin  remorse.     What  if  we  yet  were 

safe? 
Giacomo.     How  can  that  be  ?    Already 

Beatrice, 
Lucretia  and  the  murderer  are  in  prison. 
I  doubt  not  officers  are,  whilst  we  speak, 
Sent  to  arrest  us. 

Orsino.  I  have  all  prepared 

For  instant  flight.     We  can  escape  even 

now, 
So  we  take  fleet  occasion  by  the  hair. 
Giacomo.     Rather  expire  in  tortures, 

as  I  may. 
What !    will    you    cast    by   self-accusing 

flight 
Assured  conviction  upon  Beatrice? 
She,  who  alone  in  this  unnatural  work, 
Stands  like  God's  angel  ministered  upon 
By  fiends;    avenging    such    a    nameless 

wrong 
As  turns  black  parricide  to  piety; 
Whilst  we  for  basest   ends  ...   I  fear, 

Orsino, 
While    I    consider    all    your    words    and 

looks, 
Comparing  them  with  your  proposal  now, 
That  you  must  be   a  villain.     For   what 

end 
Could   you    engage    in    such    a    perilous 

crime, 
Training  me  on    with  hints,   and   signs, 

and  smiles, 
Even  tothis  gulf  ?    Thou  art  no  liar ?    No, 
Thou  art  a  lie  !     Traitor  and  murderer  ! 
Coward    and    slave !       But,    no,    defend 

thyself;  [Drawing. 


Let  the  sword  speak  what  the  indignant 

tongue 
Disdains  to  brand  thee  with. 

Orsino,  Put  up  your  weapon. 

Is  it  the  desperation  of  your  fear 
Makes  you  thus  rash  and  sudden  with  a 

friend, 
Now  ruined   for  your  sake?     If  honest 

anger 
Have  moved  you,  know  that  what  I  just 

proposed 
Was  but  to  try  you.     As  for  me,  I  mink, 
Thankless  affection  led  me  to  this  point, 
From   which,   if  my   firm   temper  could 

repent, 
I  cannot  now  recede.     Even  whilst  we 

speak 
The  ministers  of  justice  wait  below  : 
They   grant   me   these    brief    moments. 

Now  if  you 
Have  any  word  of  melancholy  comfort 
To  speak  to  your  pale  wife,  't  were  best 

to  pass 
Out  at  the  postern,  and  avoid  them  so. 
Giacomo.     O,  generous  friend  !     How 

canst  thou  pardon  me? 
Would  that  my  life  could  purchase  thine  ! 
Orsino.  That  wish 

Now  comes  a  day  too  late.     Haste;   fare 

thee  well ! 
Hear'st  thou  not  steps  along  the  corridor  ! 
\_Exit  Giacomo. 
I  'm  sorry  for  it;  but  the  guards  are  wait- 
ing 
At  his  own  gate,  and  such  was  my  con- 
trivance 
That  I   might  rid    me  both   of  him  and 

them. 

I  thought  to  act  a  solemn  comedy 
Upon    the    painted    scene    of     this    new 

world, 
And  to  attain  my  own  peculiar  ends 
By  some  such  plot  of  mingled  good  and 

ill 
As    others    weave;     but     there     arose    a 

Power 
Which  graspt   and  snapt  the   threads  of 

my  device 
And  turned  it  to  a  net  of  ruin   .   .   .   Ha ! 
[A  shout  is  heard. 
Is     that     my    name    I    hear     proclaimed 

abroad? 
But  I  will  pass,  wrapt  in  a  vile  disguise; 


THE    CENCT. 


343 


Rags  on  my  back,  and  a  false  innocence 
Upon    my    face,    thro'    the    misdeeming 

crowd 
Which  judges  by  what  seems.      'T  is  easy 

then 
For  a  new  name  and  for  a  country  new, 
And  a  new  life,  fashioned  on  old  desires, 
To    change    the    honors    of    abandoned 

Rome. 
And  these   must   be   the    masks    of  that 

within, 
Which  must  remain  unaltered  .   .   .  Oh, 

I  fear 
That  what  is  past  will  never  let  me  rest ! 
Why,  when  none  else   is  conscious,  but 

myself, 
Of  my  misdeeds,  should  my  own  heart's 

contempt 
Trouble  me?     Have  I  not  the  power  to 

fly 
My   own    reproaches?     Shall    I    be    the 

slave 
Of   .   .   .   what?      A  word?  which  those 

of  this  false  world 
Employ  against  each    other,   not    them- 
selves; 
As  men  wear  daggers  not  for  self-offence. 
But  if  I  am  mistaken,  where  shall  I 
Find  the  disguise  to  hide  me  from  myself, 
As  now  I  skulk  from  every  other  eye? 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. —A  Hall  of  Justice. 
Camillo,  Judges,  etc.,  are  discovered 
seated ;  Marzio  is  led  in. 

First  Judge.     Accused,  do  you  persist 
in  your  denial  ? 
I  ask  you,  are  you  innocent,  or  guilty? 
I  demand  who  were  the  participators 
In  your   offence  ?     Speak   truth    and  the 
whole  truth. 
Marzio.      My   God!      I    did    not    kill 
him;    I  know  nothing; 
Olimpio  sold  the  robe  to  me  from  which 
You  would  infer  my  guilt. 

Second  Judge.  Away  with  him  ! 

First  Judge.     Dare  you,  with  lips  yet 
white  from  the  rack's  kiss 
Speak  false?     Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner, 
That  you  would  bandy  lovers'  talk  with  it 
Till    it    wind    out    your    life    and    soul? 
Away  ! 


Marzio.      Spare  me  !      O,  spare  !     I 

will  confess. 
First  Judge.  Then  speak. 

Marzio.     I  strangled  him  in  his  sleep. 
First  Judge.     Who  urged  you  to  it  ? 
Marzio.     His  own  son,  Giacomo,  and 
the  young  prelate 
Orsino  sent  me  to  Petrella;  there 
The  ladies  Beatrice  and  Lucretia 
Tempted    me  with   a    thousand    crowns, 

and  I 
And  my  companion   forthwith   murdered 

him. 
Now  let  me  die. 

First  Judge.     This  sounds  as   bad  as 
truth.     Guards,  there, 
Lead  forth  the  prisoner  ! 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and 
Giacomo,  guarded. 

Look  upon  this  man; 
When  did  you  see  him  last? 
Beatrice.     We  never  saw  him. 
Marzio.     You  know  me  too  well,  Lady 

Beatrice. 
Beatrice.  I  know  thee  !     How? 

where?  when? 
Marzio.  You  know  't  was  I 

Whom  you  did  urge  with  menaces  and 

bribes 
To  kill  your  father.     When  the  thing  was 

done 
You  clothed  me  in  a  robe  of  woven  gold 
And  bade  me  thrive  :   how  I  have  thriven, 

you  see. 
You,  my  Lord  Giacomo,  Lady  Lucretia, 
You  know  that  what  I  speak  is  true. 
[Beatrice  advances  towards  him  ;  he 
covers  his  face,  and  shrinks  back. 
O,  dart 
The  terrible  resentment  of  those  eyes 
On   the  dead   earth  !     Turn   them  away 

from  me  ! 
They  wound :    't  was   torture   forced  the 

truth.      My  Lords, 
Having  said  this  let  me  be  led  to  death. 
Beatrice.      Poor   wretch,  I  pity   thee: 

yet  stay  awhile. 
Camillo.  Guards,  lead  him  not 

away. 
Beatrice.  Cardinal  Camillo, 

You  have  a  good  repute  for  gentleness 
And  wisdom :    can  it  be  that  you  sit  hero 
To  countenance  a  wicked  farce  like  this? 


J44 


THE  CENCI. 


When  some  obscure  and  trembling  slave 

is  dragged 
From  sufferings  which   might  shake  the 

sternest  heart 
And  bade  to  answer,  not  as  he  believes, 
But  as  those  may  suspect  or  do  desire 
Whose  questions  thence  suggest  their  own 

reply : 
And  that   in   peril  of  such  hideous  tor- 
ments 
As  merciful  God  spares  even  the  damned. 

Speak  now 
The  thing  you  surely  know,  which  is  that 

you, 
If  your  fine  frame  were  stretched  upon 

that  wheel, 
And  you  were  told:    "  Confess  that  you 

did  poison 
Your   little  nephew;    that  fair  blue-eyed 

child 
Who  was  the  lodestar  of  your  life:  "  — ■ 

and  tho' 
All  see,  since  his  most  swift  and  piteous 

death, 
Thnt  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth, 

and    time 
And  all  the  things   hoped    for   or   done 

therein 
Are  changed  to  you,  thro'  your  exceeding 

grief, 
Yet  you    would    say,     "I    confess   any- 
thing: " 
And  beg  from  your  tormentors,  like  that 

slave, 
The  refuge  of  dishonorable  death. 
I  pray  thee,  Cardinal,  that  thou  assert 
My  innocence. 

Cav-illo  {much  moved).     What  shall 

we  think,  my  Lords? 
Shame   on   these   tears !     I   thought  the 

heart  was  frozen 
Which  is  their  fountain.      I  would  pledge 

my  soul 
That  she  is  guiltless. 
Judge.  Yet  she  must  be  tortured. 

Camillo.      I  would  as  soon    have   tor- 
tured mine  own  nephew 
(If  he  now   lived   he  would  be  just   her 

age; 
His  hair,  too,  was  her  color,  and  his  eyes 
Like    hers  in  shape,  but  blue  and   not  so 

deep) 
As  that  most  perfect  image  of  God's  love 


That  ever  came  sorrowing  upon  the  earth. 
She  is  as  pure  as  speechless  infancy  ! 
Judge.      Well,  be    her    purity   on  your 
head,  my  Lord, 
If  you  forbid  the  rack.     His  Holiness 
Enjoined    us    to    pursue    this    monstrous 

crime 
By  the  severest  forms  of  law;    nay  even 
To  stretch  a  point  against  the  criminals. 
The  prisoners  stand  accused  of  parricide 
Upon  such  evidence  as  justifies 
Torture. 

Beatrice.  What  evidence?     This 

man's? 
Judge.  Even  so. 

Beatrice    {to    Marzio).      Come    near. 
And  who  art  thou  thus  chosen  forth 
Out  of  the  multitude  of  living  men 
To  kill  the  innocent? 

Marzio.  I  am   Marzio, 

Thy  father's  vassal. 

Beatrice.  Fix  thine  eyes  on  mine; 

Answer  to  what  I  ask. 

[  Turning  to  the  Judges. 

I  prithee  mark 

His  countenance:    unlike  bold  calumny 

Which   sometimes   dares    not   speak    the 

thing  it  looks, 
He  dares  not  look  the  thing  he  speaks, 

but  bends 
His  gaze  on  the  blind  earth. 

(To  Marzio.)     What !  wilt  thou  say 
That  I  did  murder  my  own  father? 

Marzio.  s       Oh  ! 

Spare  me  !     My  brain  swims  round  .   .  . 

I  cannot  speak   .    .    . 
It  was  that  horrid  torture  forced  the  truth. 
Take    me  away !      Let  her   not   look   on 

me  ! 
I  am  a  guilty  miserable  wretch: 
I  have  said  all  I  know;  now,  let  me  die  ! 
Beatrice.      My  Lords,  if  by  my  nature 
I  had  been 
So  stern,  as  to  have   planned    the  crime 

alleged, 
Which    your    suspicions    dictate    to    this 

slave, 
And  the  rack   makes  him   utter,  do  you 

think 
I  should  have  left  this  two-edged  instru- 
ment 
Of  my  misdeed;     this   man,   this  bloody 
knife 


THE    CEKCI. 


345 


With    my  own    name    engraven    on  the 

heft, 
Lying  unsheathed  amid  a  world  of   foes, 
For    my  own    death?     That  with    such 

horrible  need 
For  deepest  silence,  I  should  have  neg- 
lected 
So  trivial  a  precaution,  as  the  making 
His  tomb  the  keeper  of  a  secret  written 
On  a  thief's  memory?     What  is  his  poor 

life? 
What  are  a  thousand  lives?     A  parricide 
Had  trampled  them  like  dust;    and,  see, 

he  lives  ! 
(  Turning  to  MARZIO.)     And  thou   .   .   . 
Marzio.  Oh,  spare  me  ! 

Speak  to  me  no  more  ! 
That  stern  yet  piteous  look,  those  solemn 

tones, 
Wound  worse  than  torture. 

(7o  the  Judges.*)        I  have  told  it  all; 
For  pity's  sake  lead  me  away  to  death. 
Camilla.      Guards,    lead    him    nearer 

the  Lady  Beatrice, 
He  shrinks  from  her  regard  like  autumn's 

leaf 
From    the   keen   breath  of   the   serenest 

north. 
Beatrice.     O   thou   who   tremblest  on 

the  giddy  verge 
Of  life  and  death,  pause  ere  thou  answer- 

est  me; 
So  mayst  thou  answer  God  with  less  dis- 
may: 
What  evil  have  we  done  thee?     I,  alas  ! 
Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad 

years 
And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 
First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening 

life 
To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet 

hope;    and  then 
Stabbed  with   one   blow   my   everlasting 

soul ; 
And  my  untainted  fame;    and   even   that 

peace 
Which    sleeps    within    the    core    of     the 

heart's  heart; 
But   the  wound  was   not   mortal;    so   my 

hate 
Became  the  only  worship  I  could  lift 
To    our    great  Father,  who   in  pity   and 

love, 


Armed  thee,  as  thou  dost  say,  to  cut  him 

off; 
And  thus  his  wrong  becomes  my  accusa- 
tion: 
And    art    thou    the    accuser?       If    thou 

hopest 
Mercy    in    heaven,    show    justice    upon 

earth : 
Worse    than    a    bloody  hand    is    a   hard 

heart. 
If    thou    hast    done    murders,  made    thy 

life's  path 
Over  the  trampled  laws  of  God  and  man, 
Rush    not    before    thy    Judge,  and    say: 

"  My  maker, 
I.  have  done  this  and   more;    for  there 

was  one 
Who  was   most    pure    and    innocent    on 

earth ; 
And    because   she   endured  what    never 

any 
Guilty  or  innocent  endured  before : 
j   Because   her  wrongs  could  not  be   told, 

not  thought; 
j    Because  thy  hand   at    length   did   rescue 

her; 
;   I  with  my  words  killed  her  and  all  her 

kin." 
Think,  I  adjure  you,  what  it  is  to  slay 
'  The    reverence    living    in    the    minds   of 

men 
Towards  our  ancient  house,  and  stainless 

fame  ! 
Think  what  it  is  to  strangle  infant  pity, 
Cradled  in  the  belief  of  guileless  looks, 
Till  it   become  a  crime  to  suffer.     Think 
What  't  is  to  blot  with   infamy  and  blood 
All  that  which  shows  like  innocence,  and 

is, 
Hear  me,   great  God  !       I  swear,   most 

innocent, 
So  that  the  world  lose  all  discrimination 
Between   the   sly,  fierce,  wild   regard   of 

guilt, 
And    that  which    now  compels    thee    to 

reply 
To  what  I  ask:    Am  I,  or  am  I  not 
A  parricide? 

Marzio.  Thou  art  not ! 

Judge.  What  is  this? 

Marzio.      I  here  declare  those  whom 

I  did  accuse 
Are  innocent.      'Tis  I  alone  am  guilty. 


346 


THE    CEWCI. 


Judge.     Drag  him  away  to  torments; 
let  them  be 
Subtle  and   long   drawn    out,  to  tear  the 

folds 
Of  the  heart's  inmost  cell.     Unbind  him 

not 
Till  he  confess. 

Marzio.  Torture  me  as  ye  will : 

A  keener  pain  has  wrung  a  higher  truth 
From  my  last  breath.     She  is  most  inno- 
cent ! 
Bloodhounds,  not  men,   glut   yourselves 

well  with  me; 
I  will   not   give   you   that    fine   piece   of 

nature 
To  rend  and  ruin. 

[  Exit  Marzio,  guarded. 
Camillo.  What  say  ye  now, 

my  Lords?   . 
Judge.     Let  tortures  strain  the  truth 
till  it  be  white 
As  snow  thrice  sifted  by  the  frozen  wind. 
Camillo.     Yet  stained  with  blood. 
Judge    {to  Beatrice).         Know  you 

this  paper,  Lady? 
Beatrice.     Entrap  me  not  with  ques- 
tions.    Who  stands  here 
As  my  accuser?     Ha!  wilt  thou  be  he, 
Who  art   my   judge?     Accuser,  witness, 

judge, 
What,  all  in  one?  Here  is  Orsino's  name; 
Where  is  Orsino?   Let  his  eye  meet  mine. 
What    means    this    scrawl?      Alas!       ye 

know  not  what, 
And  therefore  on  the  chance  that  it  may 

be 
Some  evil,  will  ye  kill  us? 

Enter  an  Officer. 
Officer.  Marzio's  dead. 

judge.     What  did  he  say? 
Officer.  Nothing.      As  soon  as  we 

Had  bound  him  on  the  wheel,  he  smiled 

on  us, 
As  one  who  baffles  a  deep  adversary; 
And  holding  his  breath,  died. 

Judge.  There  remains  nothing 

But  to  apply  the  question   to   those   pris- 
oners, 
Who  yet  remain  stubborn. 

( 'amillo.  I  overrule 

Further  proceedings,  and  in  the  behalf 
Of  these  most  innocent  and   noble   ner- 


Will    use    my    interest    with    the    Holy 

F'ather. 
Judge.     Let  the  Pope's  pleasure  then 

be  done.     Meanwhile 
Conduct  these  culprits  each  to  separate 

cells; 
And    be    the    engines    ready:     for    this 

night 
If  the  Pope's  resolution  be  as  grave, 
|   Pious,  and  just  as  once,  I  '11  wring  the 


truth 

Out   of   those   nerves  and  sinews,  groan 
by  groan.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— The  Cell  of  a  Prison. 
Beatrice  is  discovered  asleep  on  a 
couch.     Enter  Bernardo. 

Bernardo.      How  gently  slumber  rests 

upon  her  face, 
Like    the    last    thoughts    of     some    day 

sweetly  spent 
Closing  in  night  and  dreams,  and  so  pro- 
longed. 
After    such    torments    as    she    bore    last 

night, 
How  light  and  soft  her  breathing  comes. 

Ay,  me  ! 
Methinks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 
But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 
From  this  sweet  folded  flower,  thus   .   .    . 

wake  !   awake  ! 
What,  sister,  canst  thou  sleep? 

Beat  idee  {awaking),  I  was  just 

dreaming 
That    we    were    all    in    Paradise.     Thou 

knowest 
This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of   Paradise 
After  our  father's  presence. 

Bernardo.  Dear,  dear  sister, 

Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream  ! 

O  God! 
How  shall  I  tell? 

Beatrice.  What  wouldst  thou 

tell,  sweet   brother? 
Bernardo.       Look    not    so    calm    and 

happy,  or  even  whilst 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say 
My  heart  will  break. 

Beatrice.  See  now,  thou 

mak'st   me  weep : 
How    very   friendless    thou   wouldst    be, 

dear  <Uiild, 


THE    CENCI. 


347 


If  I  were  dead.     Say  what  thou  hast  to  j   Brother,  lie  down  with  me  upon  the  rack, 


say. 
Bernardo.       They  have  confest;    they 
could  endure  no  more 
The  tortures  .   .   . 

Beatrice.     Ha !      What   was  there  to 
confess? 
They   must    have    told   some    weak    and 
wicked  lie 


And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse; 

It  soon  will  be  as  soft  as  any  grave. 

'T  is  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from 

fear 
Makes  the  rack  cruei. 

Giacomo.  They  will  tear  the 

truth 
|   Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains: 


To  flatter   their  tormentors.      Have  they   i    For  pity's  sake  say  thou  art  guilty  now 

Lucretia.     Oh,  speak  the   truth !    Let 
us  all  quickly  die; 
And  after   death,  God   is   our   judge,  not 

they; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 

Bernardo.  If  indeed 

It  can  be  true,  say  so,  dear  sister  mine; 
And   then   the   Pope   will  surely   pardon 

you, 
And  all  be  well. 

Judge.  Confess,  or  I  will  warp 

Your  limbs  with  such  keen  tortures  .    .   . 

Beatrice.  Tortures  !  Turn 

The    rack    henceforth    into    a    spinning 

wheel ! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when 

last 
He  lapt  the  blood  his  master  shed  .  .   . 

not  me  ! 
My  pangs  are   of  the  mind,  and   of  the 

heart, 
And  of  the  soul;    ay,  of  the  inmost  soul, 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should  I   Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning 


said 

That   they  were   guilty?     O   white   inno- 
cence, 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt 

to  hide 
Thine  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not ! 
Enter  Judge   with   Lucretia  and 
Giacomo,  guarded. 

Ignoble  hearts  ! 
For   some  brief   spasms  of    pain,    which 

are  at  least 
As  mortal  as   the   limbs  through    which 

they  pass, 
Are  centuries  of    high  splendor    laid    in 

dust? 
And  that  eternal  honor  which  should  live 
Sunlike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame, 
Changed  to  a  mockery  and  a  bye- word? 

What ! 
Will    you    give    up    these    bodies    to    be 

dragged 


sweep 


gall 


The  footsteps  of  the  vain   and   senseless  ;   To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are 

crowd,  true, 

Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity     '   My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves; 
Their   worship  and  their   spectacle,  will      And   with  considering  all  the    wretched 


leave 
The  churches  and  the  theatres  as  void 
As    their    own    hearts?     Shall    the    light 

multitude 
Fling,   at  their    choice,   curses    or   faded 

Sad    funeral    flowers    to    deck    a   living 

corpse, 
Upon  us  as  we  pass  to  pass  away, 


life 
Which  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  wretched 

end, 
And  the  small   justice  shown  by  Heaven 

and  Earth 
To  me  or   mine;    and  what  a  tyrant  thou 

art, 
And    what    slaves    these;     and     what    a 

world  we  make, 


And    leave 


having  been? 


what     memory  of     our   |   The    oppressor    and     the     opprest   .   . 


such  pangs  compel 


Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair?     O  thou,    j    My  answer.      What    is    it    thou   wouldst 


Who  wert  a  mother  to  the  parentless, 
Kill  not  thy  child  !     Let  not  her  wrongs 
kill  thee  ! 


with  me  ? 

Judge.     Art   thou    not    guilty  of     thj 
father's  death? 


348 


THE   CENCL 


Beatrice.     Or    wilt    thou    rather    tax 
high  judging  God 
That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 
Which    I    have    suffered,  and    which   he 

beheld; 
Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 
All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence, 
But    that    which    thou    hast    called    my 

father's  death? 
Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime, 
Which  either  I  have  done,  or  have   not 

done; 
Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 
If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be, 
And  so    an   end  of    all.     Now   do  your 

will; 

No  other  pains  shall  force  another  word. 

Judge.     She  is  convicted,  but  has  not 

contest. 

Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 

Let    none    have    converse    with    them. 

You,  young  Lord, 
Linger  not  here  ! 

Beatrice.     Oh,  tear  him  not  away  ! 
Judge.     Guards,  do  your  duty. 
Bernardo      {embracing     Beatrice). 
Oh  !  would  ye  divide 
Body  from  soul? 

Officer.  That  is  the  headsman's 

business. 

\_Exeunt  all  but  Lucretia, 

Beatrice,  and  Giacomo. 

Giacomo.     Have  I  contest?     Is  it  all 

over  now? 

No  hope  !    No  refuge  !    O  weak,  wicked 

tongue 
Which    hast    destroyed    me,   would   that 

thou  hadst  been 
Cut  out   and  thrown  to   dogs   first !     To 

have  killed 
My  father  first,  and    then    betrayed    my 

sister; 
Ay,    thee !    the   one   thing   innocent   and 

pure 
In  this  black  guilty  world,  to  that  which  I 
So    well   deserve !      My   wife  !     my   little 

ones  ! 
Destitute,  helpless,  and  I  .    .   .    Father! 

God  ! 
fjanst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving, 
When      their    full      hearts     break      thus, 
thus!    .    .   . 

[  Covers  his  face  and  iveeps. 


Lucretia.  O  my  child  ! 

To  what  a  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come  ! 
Why  did  I  yield?  Why  did  I  not  sustain 
Those    torments?     Oh,  that    I    were    all 

dissolved 
Into  these  fast  and  unavailing  tears, 
Which  flow  and  feel  not ! 

Beatrice.      What  't  was  weak  to  do, 
'T  is  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done; 
Take  cheer  !      The  God  who  knew  my 

wrong,  and  made 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  wrath, 
Seems,    and   but  seems,    to   have    aban- 
doned us. 
Let  us  not  think   that  we  shall  die  for 

this. 
Brother,  sit  near  me;   give  me  your  firm 

hand, 
You  had  a  manly  heart.     Bear  up  !  Bear 

up  ! 
O  dearest  Lady,  put  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile: 
Your   eyes   look   pale,   hollow  and  over- 
worn, 
With    heaviness   of   watching    and    slow 

grief. 
Come,  I  will  sing  you  some  low,  sleepy 

tune, 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad;   some  dull  old 

thing, 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony, 
Such   as   our   country   gossips    sing    and 

spin, 
Till    they    almost    forget    they    live:    lie 

down  ! 
So,    that    will    do.      Have    I    forgot    the 

words? 
Faith  !     They  are  sadder  than  I   thought 

they  were. 

SONG 

False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear, 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier! 

Farewell  !    Heigho  ! 

What  is  this  whispers  low? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  sleep,  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 


THE   CENCI. 


349 


I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain; 
When  to  wake?     Never  again. 

O  World  !   Farewell  ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 

[  The  scene  closes. 

SCENE  IV.  —A  Hall  of  the  Prison. 
Enter  Camillo  and  Bernardo. 

Camilla.     The   Pope  is  stern;   not  to 

be  moved  or  bent. 
He   lookt  as   calm   and    keen   as   is  the 

engine 
Which  tortures  and  which  kills,  exempt 

itself 
From  aught    that    it    inflicts;    a  marble 

form, 
A  rite,  a  law,  a  custom :   not  a  man. 
He  frowned,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the 

trick 
Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 
Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 
And  threw  behind,  muttering  with  hoarse, 

harsh  voice : 
"Which   among  ye   defended  their    old 

father 
Killed  in  his  sleep?  "     Then  to  another: 

"Thou 
Dost    this    in    virtue    of    thy  place;    'tis 

well." 
He  turned  to  me  then,  looking  depreca- 
tion, 
And    said    these    three    words,    coldly : 

"They  must  die." 
Bernardo.    And  yet  you  left  him  not  ? 
Camillo.  I  urged  him  still; 

Pleading,  as  I  could  guess,  the  devilish 

wrong 
Wrhich  prompted  your  unnatural  parent's 

death. 
And  he  replied:    "  Paolo  Santa  Croce 
Murdered  his  mother  yester  evening, 
And  he  is  fled.      Parricide  grows  so  rife 
That  soon,  for  some  just  cause  no  doubt, 

the  young 
Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 
Authority,  and  power,  and  hoary  hair 
Are  grown  crimes  capital.     You  are  my 

nephew, 
You   come   to   ask   their  pardon;   stay  a 

moment; 


Here   is   their   sentence;    never   see   me 

more 
Till,  to  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfilled." 
Bernardo.     O  God,  not  so  !   I  did  be- 
lieve indeed 
That  all  you  said  was  but  sad  prepara- 
tion 
For  happy  news.     Oh,  there  are  words 

and  looks 
To  bend  the  sternest  purpose !     Once  I 

knew  them, 
Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 
What  think  you  if  I  seek  him  out,  and 

bathe 
His  feet   and  robe  with   hot   and  bitter 

tears  ? 
Importune  him  with  prayers,  vexing   his 

brain 
With  ray  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 
He    strike    me   with  his  pastoral  cross, 

and  trample 
Upon    my  prostrate    head,   so    that    my 

blood 
May  stain  the  senseless  dust  on  which  he 

treads, 
And  remorse  waken  mercy?     I  will  do 

it! 

Oh,  wait  till  I  return  !  [Bushes  out. 

Camillo.  Alas  !   poor  boy  ! 

A  wreck-devoted  seaman  thus  might  pray 

To  the  deaf  sea. 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Gia- 

COMO,  guarded. 
Beatrice.  I  hardly  dare  to  fear 

That  thou    bring'st   other   news    than  a 

just  pardon. 
Camillo.     May  God  in  heaven  be  less 

inexorable 
To  the  Pope's  prayers,  than  he  has  been 

to  mine. 
Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 

Beatrice  {wildly'),  O 

My  God  !  Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly?  So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy, 

ground  ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine;  hear  no 

more 
Blithe  voice   of   living   thing;   muse   not 

again 
Upon    familiar    thoughts,   sad,    yet   thus 

lost  — 


35o 


THE   CENCI. 


How    fearful !     to   be    nothing !     Or    to 

be   .   .   . 
What?     Oh,  where   am   I?     Let  me  not 

go  mad  ! 
Sweet    Heaven,  forgive  weak    thoughts ! 

If  there  should  be 
No    God,  no    Heaven,  no    Earth  in    the 

void  world; 
The    wide,    gray,    lampless,    deep,    un- 
peopled world  ! 
If    all    things   then   should  be   .   .   .  my 

father's  spirit, 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding 

me; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead 

life  ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  him- 
self, 
Even    the    form  which    tortured    me    on 

earth, 
Maskt    in    gray    hairs    and  wrinkles,  he 

should  come 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,   and 

fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down, 

down,  down  ! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  Earth,  and  ever  present?     Even  tho' 

dead, 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe, 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same 

ruin, 
Scorn,    pain,    despair?      Who    ever   yet 

returned 
To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden 

realm  ? 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us 

now, 
Oh,  whither,  whither? 

Lucretia.  Trust  in  God's  sweet 

love, 
The     tender     promises     of     Christ :     ere 

night, 
Think,  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 

Beatrice.  'T is  past! 

Whatever  comes  my  heart   shall   sink   no 

more. 
And   yet,  I  know  not   why,   your    words 

strike  chill : 
How  tedious,    false    and    cold    seem    all 

things.      I 
Have    met    with    much   injustice   in  this 

world; 


No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  01 

man, 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know, 
From  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's 

sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God, 
I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can    any    trust?     And  yet  my  heart  is 

cold. 
[During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo 

has       retired     conversing      with 

Camillo,     who    now    goes    out; 

Giacomo  advances. 
Giacomo.       Know    you    not,    Mother 

.   .   .   Sister,  know  you  not? 
Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 
The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 

Lucretia.  Child,  perhaps 

It   will   be   granted.     We  may  all  then 

live 
To   make   these  woes  a  tale  for   distant 

years : 
Oh,  what  a  thought !     It  gushes  to  my 

heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 

Beatrice.  Yet  both  will  soon 

be  cold. 
Oh,  trample  out  that  thought!     Worse 

than  despair, 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is 

hope : 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering    beneath   us.      Plead  with  the 

swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of 

spring : 
Plead  with   awakening  earthquake,  o'er 

whose  couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and 

free; 
Now  stench   and    blackness    yawn,   like 

death.     Oh,  plead 
With    famine,    or    wind-walking     Pesti- 
lence, 
Blind    lightning,    or    the    deaf    sea,    not 

with  man  ! 
Cruel,   cold,    formal    man;     righteous  in 

words, 
In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  Mother,  we  must 

die: 


THE    CENCI. 


35' 


Since    such    is  the    reward   of    innocent 

lives; 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard, 

cold  men, 
Smiling  and  slow,  walk  thro'  a  world  of 

tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep;    't  were  just 

the  grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.     Come, 

obscure  Death, 
And    wind    me    in    thine    all-embracing 

arms  ! 
Like    a    fond    mother    hide    me    in    thy 

bosom, 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which 

none  wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once,  who  now  .  .    . 

[Bernardo  rushes  in. 

Bernardo.  Oh,  horrible, 

That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured 

forth  in  prayer, 
Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs, 
Should  all  be   vain  !     The   ministers   of 

death 
Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought 

I  saw 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one   .   .   .    What  if 

't  were  fancy? 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on 

earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,   and  he  will  wipe  it 

off 
As  if  't  were  only  rain.     O  life  !  O  world  ! 
Cover  me  !   let  me  be  no  more  !     To  see 
That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 
Wherein   I   gazed,  and  grew  happy  and 

good, 
Shivered  to  dust !     To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 
Who    made    all    lovely  thou  didst    look 

upon   .   .    . 
Thee,    light    of    life    .    .    .     dead,    dark ! 

while  I  say,  sister, 
To    hear    I    have    no    sister;     and  thou, 

Mother, 
Whose    love  was  as  a  bond  to   all    our 

loves  .    .    . 
Dead  !     The  sweet  bond  broken  ! 
Enter  CAMILLO  and  Guards. 

They  come  !     Let  me 
Kiss  those  warm   lips  before  their  crim- 
son leaves 


Are    blighted    .    .    .    white    .    .   .    cold. 

Say  farewell,  before 
Death  chokes  that   gentle  voice  !      Oh, 

let  me  hear 
You  speak  ! 

Beatrice,  Farewell,  my  tender 

brother.     Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now: 
And   let   mild,  pitying   thoughts  lighten 

for  thee 
Thy    sorrow's    load.     Err    not  in  harsh 

despair, 
But  tears  and  patience.     One  thing  more, 

my  child, 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the 

love 
Thou  bearest  us;    and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Tho'  wrapt  in  a  strange  cloud  of  crime 

and  shame, 
Lived   ever    holy   and    unstained.     And 

tho' 
111    tongues    shall    wound    me,   and  our 

common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stampt  on  thine   innocent 

brow 
For    men    to   point  at  as  they  pass,  do 

thou 
Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  un- 
kind 
Of  those,  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their 

graves. 
So  mayest  thou   die  as  I  do;    fear  and 

pain 
Being   subdued.     Farewell !     Farewell ! 

Farewell ! 
Bernardo.     I  cannot  say,  farewell ! 
Camillo.  O  Lady  Beatrice  ! 

Beatrice.     Give  yourself  no  unneces- 
sary pain, 
My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.      Here,  Mother, 

tie 
My  girdle   for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 
In  any  simple  knot;    ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.      How 

often 
Have    we    done   this   for  one    another; 

now 
We    shall    not    do    it    any    more.     My 

Lord, 
We   are  quite   ready.     Well,  't   is   very 

well. 

THE   END. 


352 


NOTE   ON  THE   CENCI. 


NOTE   ON  "THE   CENCI,"  BY 
MRS.  SHELLEY. 

The  sort  of  mistake  that  Shelley  made 
as  to  the  extent  of  his  own  genius  and 
powers,  which  led  him  deviously  at  first, 
but  lastly  into  the  direct  track  that 
enabled  him  fully  to  develop  them,  is  a 
curious  instance  of  his  modesty  of  feel- 
ing, and  of  the  methods  which  the 
human  mind  uses  at  once  to  deceive 
itself,  and  yet,  in  its  very  delusion,  to 
make  its  way  out  of  error  into  the  path 
which  Nature  has  marked  out  as  its  right 
one.  He  often  incited  me  to  attempt 
the  writing  a  tragedy:  he  conceived  that 
I  possessed  some  dramatic  talent,  and 
he  was  always  most  earnest  and  ener- 
getic in  his  exhortations  that  I  should 
cultivate  any  talent  I  possessed,  to  the 
utmost.  I  entertained  a  truer  estimate 
of  my  powers;  and  above  all  (though  at 
that  time  not  exactly  aware  of  the  fact) 
I  was  far  too  young  to  have  any  chance 
of  succeeding,  even  moderately,  in  a 
species  of  composition  that  requires  a 
greater  scope  of  experience  in,  and  sym- 
pathy with,  human  passion  than  could 
then  have  fallen  to  my  lot,  —  or  than 
any  perhaps,  except  Shelley,  ever  pos- 
sessed, even  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  at 
which  he  wrote  "The  Cenci." 

On  the  other  hand,  Shelley  most  errone- 
ously conceived  himself  to  be  destitute  of 
this  talent.  He  believed  that  one  of  the 
first  requisites  was  the  capacity  of  form- 
ing and  following-up  a  story  or  plot.  He 
fancied  himself  to  be  defective  in  this 
portion  of  imagination  :  it  was  that  which 
gave  him  least  pleasure  in  the  writings 
of  others,  though  he  laid  great  store  by 
it  as  the  proper  framework  to  support 
the  sublimest  efforts  of  poetry.  He 
asserted  that  he  was  too  metaphysical 
and  abstract,  too  fond  of  the  theoretical 
and  the  ideal,  to  succeed  as  a  tragedian. 
It  perhaps  is  not  strange  that  I  shared 
this  opinion  with  himself;  for  he  had 
hitherto  shown  no  inclination  for,  nor 
given  any  specimen  of  his  powers  in 
framing  and  supporting  the  interest  of  a 
story,  either  in  prose  or  verse.     Once  or 


twice,  when  he  attempted  such,  he  had 
speedily  thrown  it  aside,  as  being  even 
disagreeable  to  him  as  an  occupation. 

The  subject  he  had  suggested  for  a 
tragedy  was  Charles  I. :  and  he  had 
written  to  me:  "Remember,  remember 
Charles  I.  I  have  been  already  imagin- 
ing how  you  would  conduct  some  scenes. 
The  second  volume  of  St.  Leon  begins 
with  this  proud  and  true  sentiment : 
'  There  is  nothing  which  the  human  mind 
can  conceive  which  it  may  not  execute.' 
Shakespeare  was  only  a  human  being." 
These  words  were  written  in  1818,  while 
we  were  in  Lombardy,  when  he  little 
thought  how  soon  a  work  of  his  own 
would  prove  a  proud  comment  on  the  pas- 
sage he  quoted.  When  in  Rome,  in  1819, 
a  friend  put  into  our  hands  the  old  man- 
uscript account  of  the  story  of  the  Cenci. 
We  visited  the  Colonna  and  Doria  pal- 
aces, where  the  portraits  of  Beatrice 
were  to  be  found;  and  her  beauty  cast 
the  reflection  of  its  own  grace  over  her 
appalling  story.  Shelley's  imagination 
became  strongly  excited,  and  he  urge  ^ 
the  subject  to  me  as  one  fitted  for  a 
tragedy.  More  than  ever  I  felt  my  in- 
competence; but  I  entreated  him  to 
write  it  instead;  and  he  began,  and  pro- 
ceeded swiftly,  urged  on  by  intense  sym- 
pathy with  the  sufferings  of  the  human 
beings  whose  passions,  so  long  cold  in 
the  tomb,  he  revived,  and  gifted  with 
poetic  language.  This  tragedy  is  the 
only  one  of  his  works  that  he  communi- 
cated to  me  during  its  progress.  We 
talked  over  the  arrangement  of  the  scenes 
together,  I  speedily  saw  the  great  mis- 
take we  had  made,  and  triumphed  in  the 
discovery  of  the  new  talent  brought  to 
light  from  that  mine  of  wealth  (never, 
alas,  through  his  untimely  death,  worked 
to  its  depths) — -his  richly  gifted  mind. 

We  suffered  a  severe  affliction  in  Rome 
by  the  loss  of  our  eldest  child,  who  was 
of  such  beauty  and  promise  as  to  cause 
him  deservedly  to  be  the  idol  of  our 
hearts.  We  left  the  capital  of  the  world, 
anxious  for  a  time  to  escape  a  spot  asso- 
ciated too  intimately  with  his  presence 
and   loss.1       Some  friends   of    ours   were 

1  Sueli  feelings  haunted   him  when,  in  "The 


NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 


residing  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leghorn, 
and  we  took  a  small  house,  Villa  Valso- 
vano,  about  half-way  between  the  town 
and  Monte  Nero,  where  we  remained 
dining  the  summer.  Our  villa  was  sit- 
uated in  the  midst  of  a  podere ;  the 
peasants  sang  as  they  worked  beneath 
our  windows,  during  the  heats  of  a  very 
hot  season,  and  in  the  evening  the  water- 
wheel  creaked  as  the  process  of  irrigation 
went  on,  and  the  fire-flies  flashed  from 
among  the  myrtle  hedges :  Nature  was 
bright,  sunshiny,  and  cheerful,  or  diver- 
sified by  storms  of  a  majestic  terror,  such 
as  we  had  never  before  witnessed. 

At  the  top  of  the  house  there  was  a 
sort  of  terrace.  There  is  often  such  in 
Italy,  generally  roofed :  this  one  was 
very  small,  yet  not  only  roofed  but 
glazed.  This  Shelley  made  his  study; 
it  looked  out  on  a  wide  prospect  of  fer- 
tile country,  and  commanded  a  view  of 
the  near  sea.  The  storms  that  some- 
times varied  our  day  showed  themselves 
most  picturesquely  as  they  were  driven 
across  the  ocean;  sometimes  the  dark 
lurid  clouds  dipped  towards  the  waves, 
and  became  water-spouts  that  churned 
up  the  waters  beneath,  as  they  were 
chased  onward  and  scattered  by  the  tem- 
pest. At  other  times  the  dazzling  sun- 
light and  heat  made  it  almost  intolerable 
to  every  other;  but  Shelley  basked  in 
both,  and  his  health  and  spirits  revived 
under  their  influence.  In  this  airy  cell  he 
wrote  the  principal  part  of  "The  Cenci." 
He  was  making  a  study  of  Calderon  at 
the  time,  reading  his  best  tragedies  with 
an  accomplished  lady  living  near  us,  to 
whom  his  letter  from  Leghorn  was  ad- 
dressed during  the  following  year.  He 
admired  Calderon,  both  for  his  poetry 
and  his  dramatic  genius:  but  it  shows 
his  judgment  and  originality  that,  though 

Cenci,"  lie  makes  Beatrice  speak  to  Cardinal 
Camillo  of 

"  that  fair  blue-eyed  child 
Who  was  the  lodestar  of  your  life  "  — 
and  say,  — 

"All  see,  since  his  most  swift  and  piteous  death, 
That  day  and  night,  and   heaven   and    earth,  and 

time, 
And  all  the  things  hoped  for  or  done  therein. 
Are    chanced    to    you,    through    your    exceeding 

grief.v 


greatly  struck  by  his  first  acquaintance 
with  the  Spanish  poet,  none  of  his  peculi- 
arities crept  into  the  composition  of  "The 
Cenci;  :'  and  there  is  no  trace  of  his  new 
studies,  except  in  that  passage  to  which 
he  himself  alludes  as  suggested  by  one  in 
"  LI  Purgatorio  de  San  Patricio." 

Shelley  wished  "The  Cenci"  to  be 
acted.  lie  was  not  a  play-goer,  being  of 
such  fastidious  taste  that  he  was  easily 
disgu>ted  by  the  bad  filling-up  of  the 
inferior  parts.  While  preparing  for  our 
departure  from  England,  however,  he 
saw  Miss  O'Neil  several  times.  She  was 
then  in  the  zenith  of  her  glory;  and 
Shelley  was  deeply  moved  by  her  imper- 
sonation of  several  parts,  and  by  the 
graceful  sweetness,  the  intense  pathos, 
and  sublime  vehemence  of  passion,  she 
displayed.  She  was  often  in  his  thoughts 
as  he  wrote :  and,  when  he  had  finished, 
he  became  anxious  that  his  tragedy 
should  be  acted,  and  receive  the  advan- 
tage of  having  this  accomplished  actress 
to  fill  the  part  of  the  heroine.  With 
this  view  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to 
a  friend  in  London : 

"The  object  of  the  present  letter  is  to 
ask  a  favor  of  you.  I  have  written  a 
tragedy  on  a  story  well  known  in  Italy, 
and,  in  my  conception,  eminently  dra- 
matic. I  have  taken  some  pains  to  make 
my  play  fit  for  representation,  and  those 
who  have  already  seen  it  judge  favorably. 
It  is  written  without  any  of  the  peculiar 
feelings  and  opinions  which  characterize 
my  other  compositions;  I  have  attended 
simply  to  the  impartial  development  of 
such  characters  as  it  is  probable  the  per- 
sons represented  really  were,  together 
with  the  greatest  degree  of  popular  effect 
to  be  produced  by  such  a  development. 
I  send  you  a  translation  of  the  Italian 
MS.  on  which  my  play  is  founded;  the 
chief  circumstance  of  which  I  have 
touched  very  delicately:  for  my  princi- 
pal doubt  as  to  whether  it  would  succeed 
as  an  acting  play  hangs  entirely  on  the 
question  as  to  whether  any  such  a  thing 
as  incest  in  this  shape,  however  treated, 
would  be  admitted  on  the  stage.  I  think, 
however,  it  will  form  no  objection;  con- 
sidering,  first,   that  the   facts  are  matter 


354 


NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 


of  history,  and,  secondly,  the  peculiar 
delicacy  with  which  I  have  treated  it.1 

"I  am  exceedingly  interested  in  the 
question  of  whether  this  attempt  of  mine 
will  succeed  or  not.  I  am  strongly  in- 
clined to  the  affirmative  at  present;  found- 
ing my  hopes  on  this  —  that,  as  a  compo- 
sition, it  is  certainly  not  inferior  to  any 
of  the  modern  plays  that  have  been 
acted,  with  the  exception  of  "  Remorse;  " 
that  the  interest  of  the  plot  is  incredibly 
greater  and  more  real;  and  that  there  is 
nothing  beyond  what  the  multitude  are 
contented  to  believe  that  they  can  under- 
stand, either  in  imagery,  opinion,  or  sen- 
timent. I  wish  to  preserve  a  complete 
incognito,  and  can  trust  to  you  that, 
whatever  else  you  do,  you  will  at  least 
favor  me  on  this  point.  Indeed,  this  is 
essential,  deeply  essential,  to  its  success. 
After  it  had  been  acted,  and  successfully 
(could  I  hope  for  such  a  thing),  I  would 
own  it  if  I  pleased,  and  use  the  celebrity 
it  might  acquire  to  my  own  purposes. 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  procure 
for  me  its  presentation  at  Covent  Garden. 
The  principal  character,  Beatrice,  is  pre- 
cisely fitted  for  Miss  O'Neil,  and  it  might 
even  seem  to  have  been  written  for  her 
(God  forbid  that  I  should  see  her  play  it 
—  it  would  tear  my  nerves  to  pieces); 
and  in  all  respects  it  is  fitted  only  for 
Covent  Garden.  The  chief  male  charac- 
ter I  confess  I  should  be  very  unwilling 
that  any  one  but  Kean  should  play. 
That  is  impossible,  and  I  must  be  con- 
tented with  an  inferior  actor." 

The  play  was  accordingly  sent  to  Mr. 
Harris.  He  pronounced  the  subject  to 
1)2  so  objectionable  that  he  could  not  even 
submit  the  part  to  Miss  O'Neil  for  perusal, 
but  expressed  his  desire  that  the  author 
would  write  a  tragedy  on  some  other 
subject,  which  he  would  gladly  accept. 
Shelley  printed  a  small  edition  at  Leg- 
horn, to  insure  its  correctness;  as  he 
was  much  annoyed  by  the  many  mistakes 

1  In  speaking  of  his  mode  of  treating  this 
main  incident,  Shelley  said  that  it  might  be 
remarked  that,  in  the  course  of  the  play,  he  had 
never  mentioned  expressly  Cenci's  worst  crime. 
Everv  one  knew  what  it  must  be,  but  it  was  never 
imagined  in  words — the  nearest  allusion  to  it 
being  that  portion  of  Cenci's  curse  beginning  — 
"  That,  if  she  have  a  child,"  etc. 


that  crept  into  his  text  when  distance 
prevented  him  from  correcting  the  press. 
Universal  approbation  soon  stamped 
"The  Cenci  "  as  the  best  tragedy  of 
modern  times.  Writing  concerning  it, 
Shelley  said:  "  I  have  been  cautious  to 
avoid  the  introducing  faults  of  youthful 
composition;  diffuseness,  a  profusion  of 
inapplicable  imagery,  vagueness,  gener- 
ality, and,  as  Hamlet  says,  words, 
words."  There  is  nothing  that  is  not 
purely  dramatic  throughout;  and  the 
character  of  Beatrice,  proceeding,  from 
vehement  struggle,  to  horror,  to  deadly 
resolution,  and  lastly  to  the  elevated  dig- 
nity of  calm  suffering,  joined  to  passion- 
ate tenderness  and  pathos,  is  touched 
with  hues  so  vivid  and  so  beautiful  that 
the  poet  seems  to  have  read  intimately 
the  secrets  of  the  noble  heart  imaged  in 
the  lovely  countenance  of  the  unfortu- 
nate girl.  The  Fifth  Act  is  a  master- 
piece. It  is  the  finest  thing  he  ever 
wrote,  and  may  claim  proud  comparison 
not  only  with  any  contemporary,  but 
preceding,  poet.  The  varying  feelings 
of  Beatrice  are  expressed  with  passion- 
ate, heart-reaching  eloquence.  Every 
character  has  a  voice  that  echoes  truth 
in  its  tones.  It  is  curious,  to  one 
acquainted  with  the  written  story,  to 
mark  the  success  with  which  the  poet 
has  inwoven  the  real  incidents  of  the 
tragedy  into  his  scenes,  and  yet,  through 
theC  power  of  poetry,  has  obliterated  all 
that  would  otherwise  have  shown  too 
harsh  or  too  hideous  in  the  picture.  His 
success  was  a  double  triumph;  and  oft<m 
after  he  was  earnestly  entreated  to  write 
again  in  a  style  that  commanded  popular 
favor,  while  it  was  not  less  instinct  with 
truth  and  genius.  But  the  bent  of  his 
mind  went  the  other  way;  and,  even 
when  employed  on  subjects  whose  inter- 
est depended  on  character  and  incident, 
he  would  start  off  in  another  direction, 
and  leave  the  delineations  of  human 
passion,  which  he  could  depict  in  so  able 
a  manner,  for  fantastic  creations  of  his 
fancy,  or  the  expression  of  those  opinions 
and  sentiments,  with  regard  to  human 
nature  and  its  destiny,  a  desire  to  diffuse 
which  was  the  master  passion  of  his  soul. 


THE   MASK  OF  ANARCHY. 


355 


THE    MASK    OF   ANARCHY. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE    OCCASION    OF  THE    MASSACRE  AT  MANCHESTER. 


As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy 
There  came  a  voice  from  over  the  Sea, 
And  with  great  power  it  forth  led  me 
To  walk  in  the  visions  of  Poesy. 


I  met  Murder  on  the  way  — 
He  had  a  mask  like  Castlereagh  — 
Very  smooth  he  looked,  yet  grim; 
Seven  blood-hounds  followed  him: 


All  were  fat;    and  well  they  might 

Be  ir  admirable  plight, 

For  one  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

He  tossed  them  human  hearts  to  chew 

Which  from  his  wide  cloak  he  drew. 


Next  came  Fraud,  and  he  had  on, 
Like  Eldon,  an  ermined  gown; 
His  big  tears,  for  he  wept  well, 
Turned  to  mill-stones  as  they  fell. 


And  the  little  children,  who 

Round  his  feet  played  to  and  fro, 

Thinking  every  tear  a  gem, 

Had  their  brains  knocked  out  by  them. 


Clothed  with  the  Bible,  as  with  light, 
And  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
Like  Sidmouth,  next,  Hypocrisy 
On  a  crocodile  rode  by. 


And  many  more  Destructions  played 
In  this  ghastly  masquerade, 
All  disguised,  even  to  the  eyes, 
Like  bishops,  lawyers,  peers,  or  spies. 


VIII. 

Last  came  Anarchy :   he  rode 
On  a  white  horse,  splasht  with  blood; 
He  was  pale  even  to  the  lips, 
Like  Death  in  tine  Apocalypse. 


And  he  wove  a  kingly  crown; 

And  in  his  grasp  a  sceptre  shone; 

On  his  brow  this  mark  I  saw  — 

"  I  am  God,  and  King,  and  Law!  " 


With  a  pace  stately  and  fast, 
Over  English  land  he  past, 
Trampling  to  a  mire  of  blood 
The  adoring  multitude. 


And  a  mighty  troop  around, 

With  their  trampling  shook  the  ground, 

Waving  each  a  bloody  sword, 

For  the  service  of  their  Lord. 


And  with  glorious  triumph,  they 
Rode  thro'  England  proud  and  gay, 
Drunk  as  with  intoxication 
Of  the  wine  of  desolation. 

XIII. 

O'er  fields  and  towns,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Past  the  Pageant  swift  and  free, 
Tearing  up,  and  trampling  down; 
Till  they  came  to  London  town. 


And  each  dweller,  panic-stricken, 
Felt  his  heart  with  terror  sicken 
Hearing  the  tempestuous  cry 
Of  the  triumph  of  Anarchy. 


356 


THE   MASK  OF  ANARCHY. 


xv. 
For  with  pomp  to  meet  him  came, 
Clothed  in  arms  like  blood  and  flame, 
The  hired  murderers,  who  did  sing 
"Thou  art  God,  and  Law,  and  King. 


"  We  have  waited,  weak  and  lone 
For  thy  coming,  Mighty  One  ! 
Our  purses  are  empty,  our  swords  are  cold, 
Give  us  glory,  and  blood,  and  gold." 


Lawyers  and  priests,  a  motley  crowd, 
To  the  earth  their  pale  brows  bowed; 
Like  a  bad  prayer  not  over  loud, 
Whispering  — "  Thou  art  Law  and  God. 

XVIII. 

Then  all  cried  with  one  accord, 
"Thou  art  King,  and  God,  and  Lord; 
Anarchy,  to  thee  we  bow, 
Be  thy  name  made  holy  now  !  " 


And  Anarchy,  the  Skeleton, 
Bowed  and  grinned  to  every  one, 
As  well  as  if  his  education 
Had  cost  ten  millions  to  the  nation. 


For  he  knew  the  Palaces 
Of  our  Kings  were  rightly  his; 
His  the  sceptre,  crown,  and  globe, 
And  the  gold-inwoven  robe. 


So  he  sent  his  slaves  before 
To  seize  upon  the  Bank  and  Tower, 
And  was  proceeding  with  intent 
To  meet  his  pensioned  Parliament. 


When  one  fled  past,  a  maniac  maid, 
And  her  name  was  Hope,  she  said: 
But  she  looked  more  like  Despair, 
And  she  cried  out  in  the  air : 

XXIII. 

"  My  father  Time  is  weak  and  gray 
With  waiting  for  a  better  day; 
See  how  idiot-like  he  stands, 
Fumbling  with  his  palsied  hands! 


"  He  has  had  child  after  child, 
And  the  dust  of  death  is  piled 
Over  every  one  but  me  — 
Misery  !  oh,  Misery  !  " 


Then  she  lay  down  in  the  street, 
Right  before  the  horses'  feet, 
Expecting,  with  a  patient  eye, 
Murder,  Fraud,  and  Anarchy. 

XXVI. 

When  between  her  and  her  foes 
A  mist,  a  light,  an  image  rose, 
Small  at  first,  and  weak,  and  frail 
Like  the  vapor  of  a  vale : 


Till  as  clouds  grow  on  the  blast, 
Like  tower-crowned  giants  striding  fast. 
And  glare  with  lightnings  as  they  fly, 
And  speak  in  thunder  to  the  sky, 


It  grew  —  a  Shape  arrayed  in  mail 
Brighter  than  the  viper's  scale, 
And  upborne  on  wings  whose  grain 
Was  as  the  light  of  sunny  rain. 

XXIX. 
On  its  helm,  seen  far  away, 
A  planet,  like  the  Morning's,  lay; 
And  those  plumes  its  light  rained  thro' 
Like  a  shower  of  crimson  dew. 


With  step  as  soft  as  wind  it  past 
O'er  the  heads  of  men  —  so  fast 
That  they  knew  the  presence  there, 
And  lookt,  —  and  all  was  empty  air. 


As     flowers     beneath     May's     footstep 

waken, 
As    stars    from    Night's     loose    hair    are 

shaken, 
As  waves  arise  when  loud  winds  call, 
Thoughts  sprung  where'er   that  step  did 

fall. 


THE   MASK  OF  AivARCHY. 


357 


XXXII. 

XL. 

And  the  prostrate  multitude 
Lookt  — and  ankle-deep  in  blood, 
Hope,  that  maiden  most  serene, 
Was  walking  with  a  quiet  mien : 

"  'T  is  to  work  and  have  such  pay 
As  just  keeps  life  from  day  to  day 
In  your  limbs,  as  in  a  cell 
For  the  tyrants'  use  to  dwell 

XXXIII. 

XLI. 

And  Anarchy,  the  ghastly  birth, 

Lay  dead  earth  upon  the  earth; 

The  Horse  of  Death  tameless  as  wind 

Fled,  and  with  his  hoofs  did  grind 

To  dust  the  murderers  thronged  behind. 

"  So  that  ye  for  them  are  made 

Loom,    and    plough,     and    sword,    and 

spade, 
With  or  without  your  own  will  bent 
To  their  defence  and  nourishment. 

XXXIV. 

XLII. 

A  rushing  light  of  clouds  and  splendor, 
A  sense  awakening  and  yet  tender 
Was  heard  and  felt  —  and  at  its  close 
These  words  of  joy  and  fear  arose 

"  'T  is  to  see  your  children  weak 
With  their  mothers  pine  and  peak, 
When  the  winter  winds  are  bleak,  — 
They  are  dying  whilst  I  speak. 

XXXV. 

XLIII. 

As  if  their  own  indignant  Earth 
Which  gave  the  sons  of  England  birth 
Had  felt  their  blood  upon  her  brow, 
And  shuddering  with  a  mother's  throe 

"  'T  is  to  hunger  for  such  diet 
As  the  rich  man  in  his  riot 
Casts  to  the  fat  dogs  that  lie 
Surfeiting  beneath  his  eye; 

XXXVI. 

XLIV. 

Had  turned  every  drop  of  blood 
By  which  her  face  had  been  bedewed 
To  an  accent  unwithstood,  — 
As  if  her  heart  had  cried  aloud: 

"  'T  is  to  let  the  Ghost  of  Gold 
Take  from  Toil  a  thousandfold 
More  than  e'er  its  substance  could 
In  the  tyrannies  of  old. 

XXXVII. 

XLV. 

"  Men  of  England,  heirs  of  Glory, 
Heroes  of  unwritten  story, 
Nurslings  of  one  mighty  Mother, 
Hopes  of  her,  and  one  another; 

"  Paper  coin  —  that  forgery 
Of  the  title  deeds,  which  ye 
Hold  to  something  of  the  worth 
Of  the  inheritance  of  Earth. 

XXXVIII. 

XLVI. 

"  Rise  like  Lions  after  slumber 
In  unvanquishable  number, 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you  — 
Ye  are  many  —  they  are  few. 

XXXIX. 

"  What  is  freedom?  — Ye  can  tell 
That  which  slavery  is,  too  well  — 
For  its  very  name  has  grown 
To  an  echo  of  your  own. 

"  'T  is  to  be  a  slave  in  soul 
And  to  hold  no  strong  control 
Over  your  own  wills,  but  be 
All  that  others  make  of  ye. 

XLVII. 

"  And  at  length  when  ye  complain 
With  a  murmur  weak  and  vain, 
'T  is  to  see  the  Tyrant's  crew 
Ride  over  your  wives  and  you  — 
Blood  is  on  the  grass  like  dew. 

353 


THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY. 


"Then  it  is  to  feel  revenge 
Fiercely  thirsting  to  exchange 
Blood  for  blood — and  wrong  for  wrong- 
Do  not  thus  when  ye  are  strong. 


"  Birds  find  rest,  in  narrow  nest 
When  weary  of  their  winged  quest; 
Beasts  find  fare,  in  woody  lair 
When  storm  and  snow  are  in  the  air.1 

L. 

"Asses,  swine,  have  litter  spread 
And  with  fitting  food  are  fed; 
All  things  have  a  home  but  one  — 
Thou,  O  Englishman,  hast  none ! 

LI. 

"  This  is  Slavery  — savage  men, 
Or  wild  beasts  within  a  den 
Would  endure  not  as  ye  do  — 
But  such  ills  they  never  knew. 

L1I. 

"What  art  thou  Freedom?     Oh!   could 

slaves 
Answer  from  their  living  graves 
This  demand  —  tyrants  would  flee 
Like  a  dream's  dim  imagery: 


"  Thou  art  not,  as  impostors  say, 
A  shadow  soon  to  pass  away, 
A  superstition,  and  a  name 
Echoing  from  the  cave  of  Fame. 

Liv. 

"  For  the  laborer  thou  art  bread, 
And  a  comely  table  spread 
From  his  daily  labor  come 
To  a  neat  and  happy  home. 

1  The  following  Stanza  originally  intended  to 
come  between  Stanzas  xlix.  and  I.,  was  rejected  : 
"  Horses,  oxen,  have  a  home, 
When  from  daily  toil  they  come: 
Household  dogs,  when  the  wind  roars, 
Find  a  home  within  warm  doors." 


"Thou  art  clothes,  and  fire,  and  food 
For  the  trampled  multitude  — 
No  —  in  countries  that  are  free 
Such  starvation  cannot  be 
As  in  England  now  we  see. 


"  To  the  rich  thou  art  a  check; 
When  his  foot  is  on  the  neck 
Of  his  victim,  thou  dost  make 
That  he  treads  upon  a  snake. 


"Thou  art  Justice  —  ne'er  for  gold 
May  thy  righteous  laws  be  sold 
As  laws  are  in  England  —  thou 
Shield'st  alike  the  high  and  low. 


"Thou  art  Wisdom  —  Freemen  never 
Dream  that  God  will  damn  for  ever 
All  who  think  those  things  untrue 
Of  which  Priests  make  such  ado. 


"  Thou  art  Peace  —  never  by  thee 
Would  blood  and  treasure  wasted  be 
As  tyrants  wasted  them,  when  all 
Leagued  to  quench  thy  flame  in  Gaul. 


"  What  if  English  toil  and  blood 
Was  poured  forth,  even  as  a  flood? 
It  availed,  O  Liberty, 
To  dim,  but  not  extinguish  thee. 


"Thou  art  Love  —  the  rich  have  kist 
Thy  feet,  and  like  him  following  Christ 
Give  their  substance  to  the  free    . 
And  thro'  the  rough  world  follow  thee, 

LXII. 

"  Or   turn    their    wealth     to    arms,    and 

make 
War  for  thy  beloved  sake 
On  wealth,  and  war,  and  fraud  —  whence 

they 
Drew  the  power  which  is  their  prey. 


THE   MASK  OF  ANARCHY. 


359 


LXIII. 

"  Science,  Poetry,  and  Thought 
Are  thy  lamps;    they  make  the  lot 
Of  the  dwellers  in  a  cot 
So  serene,  they  curse  it  not. 


"  Spirit,  Patience,  Gentleness, 

All  that  can  adorn  and  bless 

Art  thou  —  let  deeds  not  words  express 

Thine  exceeding  loveliness. 


"  Let  a  great  Assembly  be 

Of  the  fearless  and  the  free 

On  some  spot  of  English  ground 

Where  the  plains  stretch  wide  around. 


"  Let  the  blue  sky  overhead, 
The  green  earth  on  which  ye  tread, 
All  that  must  eternal  be 
Witness  the  solemnity. 


"  From  the  corners  uttermost 
Of  the  bounds  of  English  coast; 
From  every  hut,  village,  and  town 
Wkere  those  who  live  and  suffer  moan 
For  others'  misery  or  their  own, 


"  From  the  workhouse  and  the  prison 
Where  pale  as  corpses  newly  risen, 
Women,  children,  young  and  old 
Groan  for  pain,  and  weep  for  cold  — 


"From  the  haunts  of  daily  life 
Where  is  waged  the  daily  strife 
With  common  wants  and  common  cares 
Which    sows     the    human    heart    with 
tares  — 


"  Lastly  from  the  palaces 
Where  the  murmur  of  distress 
Echoes,  like  the  distant  sound 
Of  a  wind  alive,  around 


"  Those    prison    halls    of    wealth    and 

fashion 
Where  some  few  feel  such  compassion 
For  those  who  groan,  and  toil,  and  wail 
As  must  make  their  brethren  pale  — 


"  Ye  who  suffer  woes  untold, 
Or  to  feel,  or  to  behold 
Your  lost  country  bought  and  sold 
With  a  price  of  blood  and  gold  — 


"  Let  a  vast  assembly  be, 

And  with  great  solemnity 

Declare  with  measured  words  that  ye 

Are,  as  God  has  made  ye,  free  — 


"  Be  your  strong  and  simple  words 
Keen  to  wound  as  sharpened  swords, 
And  wide  as  targes  let  them  be, 
With  their  shade  to  cover  ye. 


"  Let  the  tyrants  pour  around 
With  a  quick  and  startling  sound, 
Like  the  loosening  of  a  sea, 
Troops  of  armed  emblazonry. 


"  Let  the  charged  artillery  drive 
Till  the  dead  air  seems  alive 
With  the  clash  of  clanging  wheels, 
And  the  tramp  of  horses'  heels. 


"  Let  the  fixed  bayonet 
Gleam  with  sharp  desire  to  wet 
Its  bright  point  in  English  blood 
Looking  keen  as  one  for  food. 


"  Let  the  horsemen's  scymitars 
Wheel  and  flash,  like  sphereless  stars 
Thirsting  to  eclipse  their  burning 
In  a  sea  of  death  and  mourning. 


360 


NOTE    ON   THE   MASK  OF  ANARCHY. 


"Stand  ye  calm  and  resolute, 

Like  a  forest  close  and  mute, 

With  folded  arms  and  looks  which  are 

Weapons  of  unvanquisht  war, 

LXXX. 

"  And  let  Panic,  who  outspeeds 
The  career  of  armed  steeds 
Pass,  a  disregarded  shade 
Thro'  your  phalanx  undismayed. 


"  Let  the  laws  of  your  own  land, 
Good  or  ill,  between  ye  stand 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot, 
Arbiters  of  the  dispute  :  — 


"The  old  laws  of  England  —  they 
Whose  reverend  heads  with  age  are  gray, 
Children  of  a  wiser  day; 
And  whose  solemn  voice  must  be 
Thine  own  echo  —  Liberty  ! 


"  On  those  who  first  should  violate 
Such  sacred  heralds  in  their  state 
Rest  the  blood  that  must  ensue, 
And  it  will  not  rest  on  you. 


"And  if  then  the  tyrants  dare 
Let  them  ride  among  you  there, 
Slash,  and  stab,  and  maim,  and  hew, 
What  they  like,  that  let  them  do. 

LXXXV. 

"  With  folded  arms  and  steady  eyes, 
And  little  fear,  and  less  surprise 
Look  upon  them  as  they  slay 
Till  their  rage  has  died  away. 

LXXXVI. 

"Then  they  will  return  with  shame 
To  the  place  from  which  they  came, 
And  the  blood  thus  shed  will  speak 
In  hot  blushes  on  their  check. 


LXXXVII. 

"  Every  woman  in  the  land 
Will  point  at  them  as  they  stand- 
They  will  hardly  dare  to  greet 
Their  acquaintance  in  the  street. 

LXXXVIII. 

"  And  the  bold,  true  warriors 
Who  have  hugged  Danger  in  the  wars 
Will  turn  to  those  who  would  be  free 
Ashamed  of  such  base  company. 

LXXXIX. 

"  And  that  slaughter  to  the  Nation 
Shall  steam  up  like  inspiration, 
Eloquent,  oracular; 
A  volcano  heard  afar. 


"  And  these  words  shall  then  become 
Like  oppression's  thundered  doom 
Ringing  thro'  each  heart  and  brain, 
Heard  again  —  again  —  again  ! 


"  Rise  like  Lions  after  slumber 
In  unvanquishable  number  — 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you  — 
Ye  are  many  —  they  are  few." 


NOTE  ON  THE  MASK  OF  ANARCHY, 
BY  MRS.  SHELLEY. 
Though  Shelley's  first  eager  desire  to 
excite  his  countrymen  to  resist  openly  the 
oppressions  existent  during  "the  good 
old  times  "  had  faded  with  early  youth, 
still  his  warmest  sympathies  were  for  the 
people.  I  le  was  a  republican,  and  loved 
a  democracy.  He  looked  on  all  human 
beings  as  inheriting  an  equal  right  to 
possess  the  dearest  privileges  of  our  na- 
ture: the  necessaries  of  life  when  fairly 
earned  by  labor,  and  intellectual  instruc- 
tion. His  hatred  of  any  despotism  that 
looked  upon  the  people  as  not  to  be  (-on- 
suited,  or  protected  from  want  and  igno- 
rance, was  intense.  He  was  residing 
near  Leghorn,  at  Villa  Yalsovano,  writing 
"  The  Cenci,"  when  the  news  of  the  Man- 


PETER    DELL    TILE    THLRD. 


36i 


Chester  Massacre  reached  us;  it  roused 
is  him  violent  emotions  of  indignation 
and  compassion.  The  great  truth  that 
the  many,  if  accordant  and  resolute, 
could  control  the  few,  as  was  shown  some 
years  after,  made  him  long  to  teach  his 
injured  countrymen  how  to  resist.  In- 
spired by  these  feelings,  he  wrote  the 
"  Masque  of  Anarchy,7' which  he  sent  to 
his  friend  Leigh  Hunt,  to  be  inserted  in 
tiie  Examiner,  of  which  he  was  then  the 
editor. 

"  I  did  not  insert  it,"  Leigh  Hunt  writes 
in  his  valuable  and  interesting  preface  to 
this  poem,  when  he  printed  it  in  1832, 
"because  I  thought  that  the  public  at 
large  had  not  become  sufficiently  discern- 
ing to  do  justice  to  the  sincerity  and 
kind-heartedness  of  the  spirit  that  walked 
in  this  flaming  robe  of  verse."  Davs  of 
outrage  have  passed  away,  and  with  them 
tne  exasperation  that  would  cause  such 
an  appeal  to  the  many  to  be  injurious. 
Without  being  aware  of  them,  they  at  one 
time  acted  on  his  suggestions,  and  gained 
the  day.  But  they  rose  when  human 
life  was  respected  by  the  Minister  in 
power;  such  was  not  the  case  during  the 
Administration  which  excited  Shelley's 
abhorrence. 

The  poem  was  written  for  the  people, 
and  is  therefore  in  a  more  popular  tone 
than  usual :  portions  strike  as  abrupt  and 
unpolished,  but  many  stanzas  are  all  his 
own.  I  heard  him  repeat,  and  admired, 
those  beginning 

"  My  Father  Time  is  old  and  grav," 
before  I  knew  to  what  poem  they  were 
to  belong.  But  the  most  touching  pas- 
sage is  that  which  describes  the  blessed 
effects  of  liberty;  it  might  make  a  patriot 
of  any  man  whose  heart  was  not  wholly 
closed  against  his  humbler  fellow-crea- 
tures. 

PETER   BELL   THE   THIRD. 
By  Miching  Mallecho,  Esq. 

Is  it  a  party  in  a  parlor, 

Crammed  just  as  they  on  earth  were  crammed, 
Some  sipping  punch  —  some  sipping  tea  ; 
But,  as  you  by  their  faces  see, 

All  silent,  and  all damned  ! 

Peter  Bell,  by  W.  Wordsworth. 


Ophelia.  —  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 
Hamlet.  —  Marry,  this  is  Miching  Mallecho;  it 
means  mischief. 

Shakespeare. 


DEDICATION 

TO  THOMAS  BROWN,  ESQ.,  THE  YOUNGER, 
H.F. 

Dear  Tom,  —  Allow  me  to  request  you 
to  introduce   Mr.  Peter   Bell   to   the   re- 
spectable family  of  the  Fudges.    Although 
he  may  fall  short  of  those  very  considera- 
j   ble  personages  in  the  more  active  proper- 
\   ties  which  characterize  the  Rat  and  the 
j   Apostate,  I  suspect  that  even  you,  their 
!   historian,  will  confess  that  he  surpasses 
them   in   the   more   peculiarly   legitimate 
j  qualification  of  intolerable  dulness. 

You  know  Mr.  Examiner  Hunt;  well 
—  it  was  he  who  presented  me  to  two  of 
the  Mr.  Bells.  My  intimacy  with  the 
younger  Mr.  Bell  naturally  sprung  from 
this  introduction  to  his  brothers.  And  in 
presenting  him  to  you,  I  have  the  satis- 
faction of  being  able  to  assure  you  that 
he  is  considerably  the  dullest  of  the  three. 
There  is  this  particular  advantage  in  an 
acquaintance  with  any  one  of  the  Peter 
Bells,  that  if  you  know  one  Peter  Bell, 
you  know  three  Peter  Bells;  they  are  not 
one,  but  three;  not  three,  but  one.  An 
awful  mystery,  which,  after  having  caused 
torrents  of  blood,  and  having  been 
hymned  by  groans  enough  to  deafen  the 
music  of  the  spheres,  is  at  length  illus- 
trated to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties  in 
the  theological  world,  by  the  nature  of 
Mr.  Peter  Bell. 

Peter  is  a  polyhedric  Peter,  or  a  Peter 
with  many  sides.  He  changes  colors  like 
a  chameleon,  and  his  coat  like  a  snake. 
He  is  a  Proteus  of  a  Peter.  He  was  at 
first  sublime,  pathetic,  impressive,  pro- 
found; then  dull;  then  prosy  and  dull; 
and  now  dull  —  oh  so  very  dull  !  it  is  an 
ultra-legitimate  dulness. 

You  will  perceive  that  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  consider  Hell  and  the  Devil  as  su- 
pernatural machinery.  The  whole  scene 
of  my  epic  is  in  "  this  world  which  is" 
—  so  Peter  informed  us  before  his  con- 
version to   ]\'!iite  Obi  — 


36: 


PETER   BELL    THE    THIRD. 


"  The  world  of  all  of  us,  and  ivhere 
We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all." 

Let  me  observe  that  I  have  spent  six 
or  seven  days  in  composing  this  sublime 
piece;  the  orb  of  my  moon-like  genius 
has  made  the  fourth  part  of  its  revolution 
round  the  dull  earth  which  you  inhabit, 
driving  you  mad,  while  it  has  retained  its 
calmness  and  its  splendor,  and  I  have 
been  fitting  this  its  last  phase  "  to  occupy 
a  permanent  station  in  the  literature  of 
my  country." 

Your  works,  indeed,  dear  Tom,  sell  bet- 
ter; but  mine  are  far  superior.  The  pub- 
lic is  no  judge;  posterity  sets  all  to  rights. 

Allow  me  to  observe  that  so  much  has 
been  written  of  Peter  Bell,  that  the  pres- 
ent history  can  be  considered  only,  like 
the  "  Iliad,"  as  a  continuation  of  that 
series  of  cyclic  poems,  which  have  already 
been  candidates  for  bestowing  immortal- 
ity upon,  at  the  same  time  that  they  re- 
ceive it  from,  his  character  and  adven- 
tures. In  this  point  of  view  I  have  vio- 
lated no  rule  of  syntax  in  beginning  my 
composition  with  a  conjunction;  the  full 
stop  which  closes  the  poem  continued  by 
me  being,  like  the  full  stops  at  the  end 
of  the  "Iliad"  and  "Odyssey,"  a  full 
stop  of  a  very  qualified  import. 

Hoping  that  the  immortality  which  you 
have  given  to  the  Fudges,  you  will  receive 
from  them;  and  in  the  firm  expectation, 
that  when  London  shall  be  an  habitation 
of  bitterns;  when  St.  Paul's  and  West- 
minster Abbey  shall  stand,  shapeless  and 
nameless  ruins,  in  the  midst  of  an  un- 
peopled marsh;  when  the  piers  of  Water- 
loo Bridge  shall  become  the  nuclei  of 
islets  of  reeds  and  osiers,  and  cast  the 
jagged  shadows  of  their  broken  arches  on 
the  solitary  stream,  some  transatlantic 
commentator  will  be  weighing  in  the  scales 
of  some  new  and  now  unimagined  system 
of  criticism,  the  respective  merits  of  the 
Bells  and  the  Fudges,  and  their  historians. 
I  remain,  dear  Tom,  yours  sincerely, 
MlCHING  MALLECHO. 
December  i,    1819. 

P.S.  —  Pray  excuse  the  date  of  place; 
so  soon  as  the  profits  of  the  publication 
come  in,  I  mean  to  hire  lodgings  in  a 
more  respectable  street. 


PROLOGUE. 

Peter  Bells,  one,  two  and  three, 
O'er  the  wide  world  wandering  be.  — 

First,  the  antenatal  Peter, 

Wrapt  in  weeds  of  the  same  metre, 

The  so  long  predestined  raiment 

Clothed  in  which  to  walk  his  way  meant 

The  second  Peter;  whose  ambition 

Is  to  link  the  proposition, 

As  the  mean  of  two  extremes  — 

(This  was  learnt  from  Aldric's  themes) 

Shielding  from  the  guilt  of  schism 

The  orthodoxal  syllogism; 

The  First  Peter  —  he  who  was 

Like  the  shadow  in  the  glass 

Of  the  second,  yet  unripe, 

His  substantial  antitype.  — 

Then  came  Peter  Bell  the  Second, 

Who  henceforward  must  be  reckoned 

The  body  of  a  double  soul, 

And  that  portion  of  the  whole 

Without  which  the  rest  would  seem 

Ends  of  a  disjointed  dream.  — - 

And  the  Third  is  he  who  has 

O'er  the  grave  been  forced  to  pass 

To  the  other  side,  which  is,  — 

Go  and  try  else,  —  just  like  this. 


Peter  Bell  the  First  was  Peter 
Smugger,  milder,  softer,  neater, 
Like  the  soul  before  it  is 
Born  from  that  world  into  this. 
The  next  Peter  Bell  was  he, 
Predevote,  like  you  and  me, 
To  good  or  evil  as  may  come; 
His  was  the  severer  doom,  — ■ 
For  he  was  an  evil  Cotter, 
And  a  polygamic  Potter.1 
And  the  last  is  Peter  Bell, 
Damned  since  our  first  parents  fell, 
Damned  eternally  to  Hell  — 
Surely  he  deserves  it  well  ! 


1  The  oldest  scholiasts  read  — 

A  dodccagamic  Potter. 
This  is  at  once  more  descriptive  and  more  mega- 
lophonous,  —  hut  the  alliteration  of  the  text  had 
captivated   the  vulgar  ear  of  the   herd   of   later 
commentators. 


PETER   BELL    THE    THLRD. 


3^3 


PART  THE   FIRST. 

DEATH. 
I. 

And  Peter  Bell,  when  he  had  been 
With  fresh-imported  Hell-fire  warmed, 

Grew  serious  —  from  his  dress  and  mien 

'T  was  very  plainly  to  be  seen 
Peter  was  quite  reformed. 


His  eyes   turned   up,  his   mouth   turned 
down; 

His  accent  caught  a  nasal  twang; 
He  oiled  his  hair,1  there  might  be  heard 
The  grace  of  God  in  every  word 

Which  Peter  said  or  sang. 


But  Peter  now  grew  old,  and  had 
An  ill  no  doctor  could  unravel; 

His  torments  almost  drove  him  mad; 

Some  said  it  was  a  fever  bad  — 
Some  swore  it  was  the  gravel. 


His  holy  friends  then  came  about, 

And    with    long    preaching    and    per- 
suasion, 
Convinced  the  patient  that,  without 
The  smallest  shadow  of  a  doubt, 
He  was  predestined  to  damnation. 


They  said —  "  Thy  name  is  Peter  Bell; 

Thy  skin  is  of  a  brimstone  hue; 
Alive  or  dead  —  ay,  sick  or  well  — 
The  one  God  made  to  rhyme  with  hell; 

The  other,  I  think,  rhymes  with  you. 


1  To  those  who  have  not  duly  appreciated  the 
distinction  between  IVhale  and  Russia  oil,  this 
attribute  might  rather  seem  to  belong  to  the 
Dandy  than  the  Evangelic.  The  effect,  when 
to  the  windward,  is  indeed  so  similar,  that  it 
requires  a  subtle  naturalist  to  discriminate  the 
animals.  They  belong,  however,  to  distinct 
genera. 


Then  Peter  set  up  such  a  yell !  — 

The  nurse,  who  with  some  water  gruel 
Was  climbing  up  the  stairs,  as  well 
As  her  old  legs  could  climb  them  —  fell, 
And  broke  them  both  —  the  fall  was 
cruel. 


The  Parson  from  the  casement  leapt 

Into  the  lake  of  Windermere  — 
And  many  an  eel,  —  though  no  adept 
In  God's  right  reason  for  it  —  kept 
Gnawing  his  kidneys  half  a  year. 


And  all  the  rest  rushed  thro'  the  door, 

And  tumbled  over  one  another, 
And  broke  their  skulls.  —  Upon  the  flooi 
Meanwhile  sat  Peter  Bell,  and  swore, 
And  curst  his  father  and  his  mother; 


And  raved  of  God,  and  sin,  and  death, 

Blaspheming  like  an  infidel; 
And  said,  that  with  his  clenched  teeth, 
He  'd  seize  the  earth  from  underneath, 

And  drag  it  with  him  down  to  hell. 

x. 

As  he  was  speaking  came  a  spasm, 

And     wrencht     his     gnashing     teeth 
asunder; 
Like  one  who  sees  a  strange  phantasm 
He  lay,  — there  was  a  silent  chasm 
Between  his  upper  jaw  and  under. 


And  yellow  death  lay  on  his  face; 

And  a  fixt  smile  that  was  not  human 
Told,  as  I  understand  the  case, 
That  he  was  gone  to  the  wrong  place :  — 

I  heard  all  this  from  the  old  woman. 


Then   there   came  down   from  Langdale 
Pike 

A  cloud,  with  lightning,  wind  and  hail; 
It  swept  over  the  mountains  like 
An  ocean,  —  and  I  heard  it  strike 

The  woods  and  crags  of  Grasmere  vale, 


364 


PETER   BELL    TLLE    TLILRV. 


And  I  saw  the  black  storm  come 
Nearer,  minute  after  minute; 

Its  thunder  made  the  cataracts  dumb; 

With  hiss,  and  clash,  and  hollow  hum, 
It  neared  as  if  the  Devil  was  in  it. 


The  Devil  was  in  it :  —  he  had  bought 
Peter  for  half-a-cro\vn;    and  when 

The    storm    which    bore    him    vanisht, 
naught 

That  in  the  house  that  storm  had  caught 
Was  ever  seen  again. 


The  gaping  neighbors  came  next  day  — 
They     found     all     vanisht     from     the 
shore : 
The  Bible,  whence  he  used  to  pray, 
Half  scorcht  under  a  hen-coop  lay; 
Smasht  glass  —  and  nothing  more  ! 


PART  THE   SECOND. 

THE    DEVIL. 
I. 

The  Devil,  I  safely  can  aver, 

Has  neither  hoof,  nor  tail,  nor  sting; 
Nor  is  he,  as  some  sages  swear, 
A  spirit,  neither  here  nor  there, 
In  nothing  — yet  in  everything. 


He  is  —  what  we  are;    for  sometimes 

The  Devil  is  a  gentleman; 
At  others  a  bard  bartering  rhymes 
For  sack;    a  statesman  spinning  crimes: 

A  swindler,  living  as  he  can; 


A  thief,  who  cometh  in  the  night, 

With  whole  hoots  and  net  pantaloons, 
Like  some  one  whom  it  were  not  right 
To  mention;  — or  the  luckless  wight, 
From     whom     he     steals     nine     silver 
spoons. 


But  in  this  case  he  did  appear 

Like  a  slop-merchant  from  Wapping, 
And  with  smug  face,  and  eye  severe, 
On  every  side  did  perk  and  peer 
Till  he  saw  Peter  dead  or  napping. 


He  had  on  an  upper  Benjamin 

(For  he  was  of  the  driving  schism) 
In  the  which  he  wrapt  his  skin 
From  the  storm  he  travelled  in, 
For  fear  of  rheumatism. 


He  called  the  ghost  out  of  the  corse;  — 

It  was  exceedingly  like  Peter,  — 
Only  its  voice  was  hollow  and  hoarse  — 
It  had  a  queerish  look  of  course  — 
Its  dress  too  was  a  little  neater. 


The  Devil  knew  not  his  name  and  lot; 

Peter  knew  not  that  he  was  Bell : 
Each  had  an  upper  stream  of  thought, 
Which  made  all  seem  as  it  was  not; 

Fitting  itself  to  all  things  well. 


Peter  thought  he  had  parents  dear, 
Brothers,  sisters,  cousins,  cronies, 

In  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire; 

He  perhaps  had  found  them  there 
Had  he  gone  and  boldly  shown  his 


Solemn  phiz  in  his  own  village; 

Where  he  thought  oft  when  a  boy 
He  'd  clomb  the  orchard  walls  to  pillage 
The  produce  of  his  neighbor's  tillage, 

With  marvellous  pride  and  joy. 

x. 

And  the  Devil  thought  he  had, 
Mid  the  misery  and  confusion 

Of  an  unjust  war,  just  made 

A  fortune  by  the  gainful  trade 

Of  giving  soldiers  rations  bad  — 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  delusion. 


PETER   BELL    THE    THIRD. 


365 


That  he  had  a  mansion  planned 

In  a  square  like  Grosvenor  Square, 
That  he  was  aping  fashion,  and 
That  he  now  came  to  Westmoreland 
To  see  what  was  romantic  there. 


And  all  this,  though  quite  ideal,  — 

Ready  at  a  breath  to  vanish,  — 
Was  a  state  not  more  unreal 
Than  the  peace  he  could  not  feel, 
Or  the  care  he  could  not  banish. 


After  a  little  conversation, 

The  Devil  told  Peter,  if  he  chose, 

He?d  bring  him  to  the  world  of  fashion 

By  giving  him  a  situation 

In  his  own  service  —  and  new  clothes. 


And    Peter    bowed,    quite    pleased    and 
proud, 
And  after  waiting  some  few  days 
For  a  new  livery  —  dirty  yellow 
Turned   up   with   black  —  the    wretched 
fellow 
Was  bowled  to  Hell  in   the    Devil's 
chaise. 


PART  THE   THIRD. 

HELL. 
I. 

Hell  is  a  city  much  like  London  — 

A  populous  and  a  smoky  city; 
There  are  all  sorts  of  people  undone, 
And  there  is  little  or  no  fun  done; 

Small  justice  shown,  and  still  less  pity, 


There  is  a  *  *  *,  who  has  lost 

His  wits,  or  sold  them,  none  know: 
which ; 
He  walks  about  a  double  ghost, 
And  though  as  thin  as  Fraud  almost  — 
Ever  grows  more  grim  and  rich. 


There  is  a  Chancery  Court;   a  King  ; 

A  manufacturing  mob;    a  set 
Of  thieves  who  by  themselves  are  sent 
Similar  thieves  to  represent; 

An  army;    and  a  public  debt. 


Which  last  is  a  scheme  of  paper  money, 

And  means  —  being  interpreted  — 
"Bees,    keep   your    wax  —  give    us   the 

honey, 
And  we  will  plant,  while  skies  are  sunny, 
Flowers,   which    in    winter    serve    in- 
stead." 


There  is  a  great  talk  of  revolution  — 
And  a  great  chance  of  despotism  — 
German  soldiers  —  camps  —  confusion  — 
Tumults  —  lotteries  —  rage  —  delusion  — 
Gin  —  suicide  —  and  methodism. 


Taxes  too,  on  wine  and  bread, 

And    meat,    and    beer,    and    tea,    am 
cheese, 
From  which  those  patriots  pure  are  fed, 
Who  gorge  before  they  reel  to  bed 
The  tenfold  essence  of  all  these. 


There  are  mincing  women,  mewing, 
(Like  cats,  who  amant  misere,1) 
Of  their  own  virtue,  and  pursuing 


There  is  a  Castles,  and  a  Canning, 

A  Cobbett,  and  a  Castlereagh: 

x\ll  sorts  of  caitiff  corpses  planning 

All  sorts  of  cozening  for  trepanning 

Corpses  less  corrupt  than  they. 


1  One  of  the  attributes  in  Linnaeus's  descrip- 
tion of  the  Cat.  To  a  similar  cause  the  cater- 
wauling of  more  than  one  species  of  this  genus 
is  to  be  referred  ;  —  except,  indeed,  that  the 
poor  quadruped  is  compelled  to  quarrel  with  its 
own  pleasures,  whilst  the  biped  is  supposed  only 


I    to  quarrel  with  those  of  others. 


366 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


Their  gentler  sisters  to  that  ruin, 

Without  which  —  what  were  chastity  ?  ' 


Lawyers  —  judges  —  old  hobnobbers 

Are  there  —  bailiffs  —  chancellors  — 
Bishops  —  great  and  little  robbers  — 
Rhymesters  —  pamphleteers  — stock-job- 
bers— 
Men  of  glory  in  the  wars,  — 


Things  whose  trade  is,  over  ladies 

To    lean,    and    flirt,    and    stare,    and 
simper, 
Till  all  that  is  divine  in  woman 
Grows     cruel,     courteous,    smooth,     in- 
human, 
Crucified  'twixt  a  smile  and  whimper. 


Thrusting,  toiling,  wailing,  moiling, 

Frowning,  preaching  —  such  a  riot ! 
Each  with  never-ceasing  labor, 
Whilst  he  thinks   he   cheats  his    neigh- 
bor, 
Cheating  his  own  heart  of  quiet. 


And  all  these  meet  at  levees; — - 

Dinners  convivial  and  political;  — 
Suppers  of  epic  poets;  — teas, 
Where  small  talk  dies  in  agonies;  — 
Breakfasts  professional  and  critical; 

XIII. 

Lunches  and  snacks  so  aldermanic 

That    one    would     furnish     forth     ten 
dinners, 
Where  reigns  a  Cretan-tongued  panic, 
Lest  news  Russ,  Dutch,  or  Alemannic 
Should   make   some   losers,  and   some 
winners;  — 

1  What  would  this  husk  and  excuse  for  a 
virtue  be  without  its  kernel  prostitution,  or  the 
kernel  prostitution  without  this  husk  of  a  virtue? 
I  wonder  the  women  of  the  town  do  not  form  an 
association,  like  the  Society  for  the  Suppression 
of  Vice,  for  the  support  of  what  may  he  called 
the  "  Kitv.r,  Church,  and  Constitution  "  of  their 
order.  Hut  this  subject  is  almost  too  horrible  for 
a  joke. 


At  conversazioni — balls  — 

Conventicles  —  and  drawing-rooms  — 
Courts  of  law  —  committees  —  calls 
Of  a  morning  —  clubs  —  book-stalls  — 

Churches  —  masquerades  —  and  tombs. 


And  this  is  Hell  —  and  in  this  smother 
All  are  damnable  and  damned; 

Each  one  damning,  damns  the  other; 

They  are  damned  by  one  another, 
By  none  other  are  they  damned. 


'T  is  a  lie  to  say,  "  God  damns  !  "  2 
Where  was  Heaven's  Attorney  Gen- 
eral 

When  they  first  gave  out  such  flams? 

Let  there  be  an  end  of  shams, 

They  are  mines  of  poisonous  mineral. 

XVII. 

Statesmen  damn  themselves  to  be 
Curst;    and  lawyers  damn  their  souls 

To  the  auction  of  a  fee; 

Churchmen  damn  themselves  to  see 
God's  sweet  love  in  burning  coals. 


The  rich  are  damned,  beyond  all  cure, 

To  taunt,  and  starve,  and  trample  on 
The  weak  and  wretched;  and  the  poor 
Damn  their  broken  hearts  to  endure 
Stripe  on  stripe,  with  groan  on  groan. 

XIX. 

Sometimes  the  poor  are  damned  indeed 
To     take,  —  not     means     for    being 
blest,  — 
But  Cobbett's  snuff,  revenge;    that  weed 
From  which  the  worms  that  it  doth  feed 
Squeeze    less    than    they    before    pos- 
sest. 


1  This  libel  on  our  national  oath,  and  this 
accusation  of  all  our  countrymen  of  being  in  the 
daily  practice  of  solemnly  asseverating  the  most 
enormous  falsehood,  I  fear  deserves  the  notice 
of  a  more  active  Attorney  General  than  that  here 
alluded  to. 


PE2£R  BELL    THE    THLRD. 


367 


And  some  few,  like  we  know  who, 

Damned  —  but     God     alone      knows 
why  — 
To  believe  their  minds  are  given 
To  make  this  ugly  Hell  a  Heaven; 
In  which  faith  they  live  and  die. 


Thus,  as  in  a  town,  plague-stricken, 
Each  man  be  he  sound  or  no 

Must  indifferently  sicken; 

As  when  day  begins  to  thicken, 

None  knows  a  pigeon  from  a  crow,  — 

XXII. 

So  good  and  bad,  sane  and  mad, 

The  oppressor  and  the  opprest; 

Those  who  weep  to  see  what  others 

Smile  to  inflict  upon  their  brothers; 

Lovers,  haters,  worst  and  best; 

XXIII. 

All  are  damned  —  they  breathe  an  air, 
Thick,  infected,  joy-dispelling: 

Each  pursues  what  seems  most  fair, 

Mining  like  moles,    through  mind,  and 
there 

Scoop  palace-caverns  vast,  where  Care 
In  throned  state  is  ever  dwelling. 


PART  THE    FOURTH. 

SIN. 
I. 

Lo,  Peter  in  Hell's  Grosvenor  Square, 

A  footman  in  the  Devil's  service  ! 
And  the  misjudging  world  would  swear 
That  every  man  in  service  there 
To  virtue  would  prefer  vice. 


But  Peter,  though  now  damned,  was  not 

What  Peter  was  before  damnation. 
Men  oftentimes  prepare  a  lot 
Which,  ere  it  finds  them,  is  not  what 
Suits  with  their  genuine  station. 


All  things  that  Peter  saw  and  felt 

Had  a  peculiar  aspect  to  him; 
And  when  they  came  within  the  belt 
Of  his  own  nature,  seemed  to  melt, 
Like  cloud  to  cloud,  into  him. 


And  so  the  outward  world  uniting 
To  that  within  him,  he  became 

Considerably  uninviting 

To  those,  who  meditation  slighting, 
Were  moulded  in  a  different  frame. 


And  he  scorned  them,  and  they  scorned 
him; 

And  he  scorned  all  they  did;  and  they 
Did  all  that  men  of  their  own  trim 
Are  wont  to  do  to  please  their  whim, 

Drinking,  lying,  swearing,  play. 


Such  were  his  fellow-servants;    thus 
His  virtue,  like  our  own,  was  built 
Too  much  on  that  indignant  fuss 
Hypocrite  Pride  stirs  up  in  us 
To  bully  one  another's  guilt. 


He  had  a  mind  which  was  somehow 
At  once  circumference  and  centre 

Of  all  he  might  or  feel  or  know; 

Nothing  went  ever  out,  altho' 
Something  did  ever  enter. 


He  had  as  much  imagination 
As  a  pint-pot;  —  he  never  could 

Fancy  another  situation, 

From  which  to  dart  his  contemplation, 
Than  that  wherein  he  stood. 

IX. 

Yet  his  was  individual  mind, 

And  new  created  all  he  saw 
In  a  new  manner,  and  refined 
Those  new  creations,  and  combined 
Them,  by  a  master-spirit's  law. 


36S 


PETER  BELL    THE    THIRD. 


Thus —  tho'  unimaginative  — 

An  apprehension  clear,  intense, 
Of  his  mind's  work,  had  made  alive 
The  things  it  wrought  on;  I  believe 
Wakening  a  sort  of  thought  in  sense. 


But  from  the  first  't  was  Peter's  drift 

To  be  a  kind  of  moral  eunuch, 
He  toucht  the  hem  of  Nature's  shift, 
Felt  faint  —  and  never  dared  uplift 
The  closest,  all-concealing  tunic. 


She    laught    the   while,    with    an    arch 
smile 

And  kist  him  with  a  sister's  kiss, 
And  said  —  "  My  best  Diogenes, 
I  love  you  well  —  but,  if  you  please, 

Tempt  not  again  my  deepest  bliss. 


"  'T  is  you  are  cold  —  for  I,  not  coy, 
Yield  love  for  love,  frank,  warm,  and 
true; 
And  Burns,  a  Scottish  peasant  boy  — 
His  errors  prove  it  —  knew  my  joy 
More,  learned  friend,  than  you. 


"  Bocca  bacciata  non  perde  vent  lira 

Ami  rinnuova  come  fa  la  /una:  — 
So  thought  Boccaccio,  whose  sweet  words 

might  cure  a 
Male    prude,   like    you,   from  what    you 
now  endure,  a 
Low  -  tide    in    soul,    like    a    stagnant 
laguna." 


Then  Peter  rubbed  his  eyes  severe, 

And   smoothed   his   spacious  forehead 
down, 
With  his  broad  palm;  —  'twixt  love  and 

fear, 
He  lookt,  as  he  no  doubt  felt,  queer, 
And  in  his  dream  sate  down. 


The  Devil  was  no  uncommon  creature; 

A  leaden-witted  thief  —  just  huddled 
Out  of  the  dross  and  scum  of  nature; 
A  toad-like  lump  of  limb  and  feature. 

With    mind,    and    heart,    and    fancy 
muddled. 


He  was  that  heavy,  dull,  cold  thing, 
The  spirit  of  evil  well  may  be : 

A  drone  too  base  to  have  a  sting; 

Who  gluts,  and  grimes  his  lazy  wing, 
And  calls  lust,  luxury. 

XVIII. 

Now  he  was  quite  the  kind  of  wight 
Round  whom  collect,  at  a  fixt  era, 
Venison,  turtle,  hock,  and  claret,  — 
Good    cheer  —  and   those  who  come  tc 
share  it  — 
And  best  East  Indian  madeira  ! 


It  was  his  fancy  to  invite 

Men  of  science,  wit,  and  learning, 
Who  came  to  lend  each  other  light; 
He     proudly     thought     that     his     gold' 
might 

Had  set  those  spirits  burning. 


And  men  of  learning,  science,  wit, 

Considered  him  as  you  and  I 
Think  of   some  rotten  tree,  and  sit 
Lounging  and  dining  under  it, 
Exposed  to  the  wide  sky. 


And  all  the  while,  with  loose  fat  smile, 
The  willing  wretch  sat  winking  there, 
Believing  't  was  his  power  that  made 
That  jovial  scene — -and  that  all  paid 
Homage  to  his  unnoticed  chair. 


Tho'  to  be  sure  this  place  was  Hell; 

He  was  the  Devil  —  and  all  they  — 
What  though  the  claret  circled  well, 
And  wit,  like  ocean,  rose  and  fell?  — 

Were  damned  eternally. 


PETER   BELL    TLLE    THIRD. 


369 


PART  THE   FIFTH. 


Among  the  guests  who  often  staid 

Till  the  Devil's  petits-soupers, 
A  man  there  came,  fair  as  a  maid, 
And  Peter  noted  what  he  said, 

Standing  behind  his  master's  chair. 


He  was  a  mighty  poet  —  and 

A  subtle-souled  psychologist; 
All  things  he  seemed  to  understand, 
Of  old  or  new  —  of  sea  or  land  — 
But  his  own  mind  —  which  was  a  mist. 


in. 


This  was  a  man  who  might  have  turned 
Hell  into  Heaven  —  and  so  in  gladness 

A  Heaven  unto  himself  have  earned; 

But  he  in  shadows  undiscerned 

Trusted,  —  and    damned    himself    to 
madness. 


IV 


He  spoke  of  poetry,  and  how 

"  Divine  it  was — a  light  —  a  love  — 

A  spirit  which  like  wind  doth  blow 

As  it  listeth,  to  and  fro; 

A  dew  rained  down  from  God  above. 


"A  power   which    comes  and  goes    like 
dream, 
And  which  none  can  ever  trace  — 
Heaven's  light  on  earth  —  Truth's  bright- 
est beam." 
And  when  he  ceased  there  lay  the  gleam 
Of  those  words  upon  his  face. 


Now  Peter,  when  he  heard  such  talk, 
Would,  heedless  of  a  broken  pate, 
Stand  like  a  man  asleep,  or  balk 
Some  wishing  guest  of  knife  or  fork, 
Or  drop  and  break  his  master's  plate. 


At  night  he  oft  would  start  and  wake 

Like  a  lover,  and  began 
In  a  wild  measure  songs  to  make 
On  moor,  and  glen,  and  rocky  lake, 

And  on  the  heart  of  man  — 


And  on  the  universal  sky  — 

And  the  wide  earth's  bosom  green,  - 
And  the  sweet,  strange  mystery 
Of  what  beyond  these  things  may  lie, 

And  yet  remain  unseen. 


For  in  his  thought  he  visited 

The    spots    in    which,    ere    dead    and 
damned, 
He  his  wayward  life  had  led; 
Yet  knew  not  whence  the  thoughts  were 
fed, 
Which  thus  his  fancy  crammed. 


And  these  obscure  remembrances 
Stirred  such  harmony  in  Peter, 
That  whensoever  he  should  please, 
He  could  speak  of  rocks  and  trees 
In  poetic  metre. 


For  tho'  it  was  without  a  sense 

Of  memory,  yet  he  remembered  well 

Many  a  ditch  and  quick-set  fence; 

Of  lakes  he  had  intelligence, 

He  knew  something  of  heath  and  fell. 

XII. 

He  had  also  dim  recollections 

Of  pedlars  tramping  on  their  rounds; 
Milk-pans  and  pails;  and  odd  collections 
Of  saws,  and  proverbs;  and  reflections 

Old  parsons  make  in  burying-grounds 


But  Peter's  verse  was  clear,  and  came 
Announcing  from  the  frozen  hearth 
Of  a  cold  age,  that  none  might  tame 
The  soul  of  that  diviner  flame 
It  augured  to  the  Earth. 


37o 


PETER  BELL    THE    THIRD. 


Like  gentle  rains,  on  the  dry  plains, 

Making  that  green  which  late  was  gray, 
Or  like  the  sudden  moon,  that  stains 
Some  gloomy  chamber's  window  panes 
With  a  broad  light  like  day. 


XV. 


For  language  was  in  Peter's  hand, 

Like  clay,  while  he  was  yet  a  potter; 
And  he  made  songs  for  all  the  land, 
Sweet  both  to  feel  and  understand, 
As  pipkins  late  to  mountain  cotter. 


And  Mr.  ,  the  bookseller, 

Gave  twenty  pounds  for  some;  — then 
scorning 
A  footman's  yellow  coat  to  wear, 
Peter,  too  proud  of  heart,  I  fear, 

Instantly  gave  the  Devil  warning. 


Whereat  the  Devil  took  offence, 

And   swore   in   his   soul   a  great  oath 
then, 
"  That  for  his  damned  impertinence, 
He'd  bring  him  to  a  proper  sense 
Of  what  was  due  to  gentlemen  !  "  — 


PART  THE   SIXTH. 

DAMNATION. 
I. 

"  O  THAT  mine  enemy  had  written 
A    book!" — cried    Job: — a   fearful 
curse; 
If  to  the  Arab,  as  the  Briton, 
'T  was  galling  to  be  critic-bitten  :  — ■ 
The  Devil  to  Peter  wished  no  worse. 

II. 

When  Peter's  next  new  book  found  vent, 
The  Devil  to  all  the  first  Reviews 

A  copy  of  it  slyly  sent, 

With  five-pound  note  as  compliment, 
And  this  short  notice  —  "  Pray  abuse." 


Then  seriatim,  month  and  quarter, 
Appeared   such    mad    tirades.  —  One 
said  — 
"  Peter  seduced  Mrs.  Foy's  daughter, 
Then  drowned  the  mother  in  Ullswater, 
The  last  thing  as  he  went  to  bed." 


Another  —  "  Let  him  shave  his  head  ! 

Where's  Dr.  Willis?  —  Or  is  he  joking? 
What  does  the  rascal  mean  or  hope, 
No  longer  imitating  Pope, 

In   that    barbarian    Shakespeare    pok- 
ing?" 


One  more,  "  Is  incest  not  enough? 

And  must  there  be  adultery  too? 
Grace  after  meat?     Miscreant  and  Liar! 
Thief !    Blackguard  !    Scoundrel !    Fool ! 
Hell-fire 

Is  twenty  times  too  good  for  you. 


VI. 

"  By  that  last  book  of  yours  WE  think 
You've    double    damned    yourself    to 
scorn; 
We  warned  you  whilst  yet  on  the  brink 
You  stood.      From  your  black  name  will 
shrink 
The  babe  that  is  unborn." 


All  these  Reviews  the  Devil  made 
Up  in  a  parcel,  which  he  had 

Safely  to  Peter's  house  conveyed. 

For  carriage,  tenpence  Peter  paid  — 
Untied  them  —  read  them  —  went  half- 
mad. 


"  What !  "   cried  he,  "  this  is  my  reward 
For  nights  of  thought,  and  days  of  toil? 
Do  poets,  but  to  be  abhorred 
By  men  of  whom  they  never  heard, 
Consume  their  spirits'  oil? 


PETER  BELL    THE    THIRD. 


37* 


"  What  have  I  done  to  them?  —  and  who 
Is  Mrs.  Foy?      *T  is  very  cruel 

To  speak  of  me  and  Betty  so  ! 

Adultery  !     God  defend  me  !     Oh  ! 
I  've  half  a  mind  to  fight  a  duel. 


"Or,"  cried  he,  a  grave  look  collecting, 

"  Is  it  my  genius,  like  the  moon, 
Sets  those  who  stand  her  face  inspecting, 
That  face  within  their  brain  reflecting, 
Like  a  crazed  bell-chime,  out  of  tune  ?" 


I  lookt  on  them  nine  several  days, 

And  then  I  saw  that  they  were  bad; 
A  friend,  too,  sppke  in  their  dispraise,  - 
He  never  read  them;  —  with  amaze 
I  found  Sir  William  Drummond  had. 


When  the  book  came,  the  Devil  sent 

It  to  P.  Verbovale,2  Esquire, 
With  a  brief  note  of  compliment, 
By  that  night's  Carlisle  mail.     It  went, 
And  set  his  soul  on  fire. 


For  Peter  did  not  know  the  town, 

But  thought,  as  country  readers  do, 
For  half  a  guinea  or  a  crown, 
He  bought  oblivion  or  renown 


From  God's 


own  voice  l  in  a  review 


All  Peter  did  on  this  occasion 

Was,  writing  some  sad  stuff  in  prose. 
It  is  a  dangerous  invasion 
When  poets  criticise;    their  station 
Is  to  delight,  not  pose. 


The  Devil  then  sent  to  Leipsic  fair, 

For  Born's  translation  of  Kant's  book; 
A  world  of  words,  tail  foremost,  where 
Right  —  wrong  —  false  —  true  —  and  foul 
—  and  fair, 
As  in  a  lottery-wheel  are  shook. 


Five  thousand  crammed  octavo  pages 

Of  German  psychologies,  —  he 
Who  his  furor  verborum  assuages 
Thereon,    deserves    just    seven    months' 
wages 
More  than  will  e'er  be  due  to  me. 


1  Vox  populi,  vox  dei.  As  Mr.  Godwin  truly  i 
observes  of  a  more  famous  saying,  of  some  merit  \ 
as  a  popular  maxim,  but  totally  destitute  of  I 
philosophical  accuracy.  •  j 


Fire,  which  ex  luce  prcebens  fumum, 

Made  him  beyond  the  bottom  see 
Of  truth's  clear  well  —  when  I  and  you 

Ma'am, 
Go,  as  we  shall  do,  subter  humum, 

We  may  know  more  than  he. 

XVIII. 

Now  Peter  ran  to  seed  in  soul 

Into  a  walking  paradox; 
For  he  was  neither  part  nor  whole, 
Nor  good,  nor  bad  —  nor  knave  nor  fool, 

—  Among  the  woods  and  rocks. 

XIX. 

Furious  he  rode,  where  late  he  ran, 

Lashing  and  spurring  his  tame  hobby; 
Turned  to  a  formal  puritan, 
A  solemn  and  unsexual  man, — 
He  half  believed  White  Obi. 


This  steed  in  vision  he  would  ride, 

High  trotting  over  nine-inch  bridges, 
With  Flibbertigibbet,  imp  of  pride, 
Mocking  and  mowing  by  his  side  — 
A  mad-brained  goblin  for  a  guide  — 
Over  corn-fields,  gates,  and  hedges. 


2  Quasi,  Qui  valet  verba  :  —  i.e.  all  the  words 
which  have  been,  are,  or  may  be  expended  by, 
for,  against,  with,  or  on  him.  A  sufficient  proof 
of  the  utility  of  this  history.  Peter's  progenitor 
who  selected  this  name  seems  to  have  possessed 
a  pure  anticipated  cognition  of  the  nature  and 
modesty  of  this  ornament  of  his  posterity. 


372 


PETER  BELL    THE    THIRD. 


After  these  ghastly  rides,  he  came 

Home  to   his   heart,   and   found   from 
thence 
Much  stolen  of  its  accustomed  flame; 
His  thoughts  grew  weak,    drowsy,   and 
lame 
Of  their  intelligence. 


To  Peter's  view,  all  seemed  one  hue; 

He  was  no  Whig,  he  was  no  Tory; 
No  Deist  and  no  Christian  he;  — 
He  got  so  subtle,  that  to  be 

Nothing  was  all  his  glory. 


One  single  point  in  his  belief 

From  his  organization  sprung, 

The  heart-enrooted  faith,  the  chief 

Ear  in  his  doctrines'  blighted  sheaf, 

That  "happiness  is  wrong;  " 


So  thought  Calvin  and  Dominic; 

So  think  their  fierce  successors,  who 
Even  now  would  neither  stint  nor  stick 
Our  flesh  from  off  our  bones  to  pick, 

If  they  might  "  do  their  do." 


His  morals  thus  were  undermined:  — 
The  old  Peter  —  the  hard,  old  Potter 

Was  born  anew  within  his  mind; 

He  grew  dull,  harsh,  sly,  unrefined, 
As  when  he  tramped  beside  the  Otter.1 


In  the  death  hues  of  agony 

Lambently  flashing  from  a  fish, 
Now  Peter  felt  amused  to  see 
Shades  like  a  rainbow's  rise  and  flee, 
Mixt  with  a  certain  hungry  wish.2 

1  A  famous  river  in  the  new  Atlantis  of  the 
Dynastophylic  Pantisocratists. 

2  See  the  description  of  the  beautiful  colors 
produced  during  the  agonizing  death  of  a  number 
of  trout,  in  the  fourth  part  of  a  long  poem  in 
blank  verse,  published  within  a  few  years.     That 


So  in  his  Country's  dying  face 

He  lookt  —  and  lovely  as  she  lay, 
Seeking  in  vain  his  last  embrace, 
Wailing  her  own  abandoned  case, 

With  hardened  sneer  he  turned  away 


XXVIII. 

And  coolly  to  his  own  soul  said;  — 
"Do  you    not    think    that   we    might 
make 
A  poem  on  her  when  she's  dead:  — 
Or,  no  —  a  thought  is  in  my  head  — 
Her  shroud  for  a  new  sheet  I'll  take. 


"My  wife  wants   one. — Let   who   will 
bury 

This  mangled  corpse  !  And  I  and  you, 
My  dearest  Soul,  will  then  make  merry, 
As  the  Prince  Regent  did  with  Sherry, — 

Ay  —  and  at  last  desert  me  too." 


And  so  his  Soul  would  not  be  gay, 

But  moaned  within  him;    like  a  fawn 
Moaning  within  a  cave,  it  lay 
Wounded  and  wasting,  day  by  day, 
Till  all  its  life  of  life  was  gone. 


As  troubled  skies  stain  waters  clear, 

The  storm  in  Peter's  heart  and  mind 
Now  made  his  verses  dark  and  queer : 
They  were  the  ghosts  of  what  they  were, 
Shaking  dim  grave-clothes  in  the  wind. 


poem  contains  curious  evidence  of  the  gradual 
hardening  of  a  strong  but  circumscribed  sensi- 
bility, of  the  perversion  of  a  penetrating  but 
panic-stricken  understandinc;.  The  author  might 
have  derived  a  lesson  which  he  had  probably  for- 
gotten from  these  sweet  and  sublime  verses  : 
"  This  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 

Taught  both  by   what  she  *    shows  and    what 

conceals, 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 
*         *  Nature. 


PETER   BELL    THE    THIRD. 


373 


For  he  now  raved  enormous  folly, 

Of    Baptisms,    Sunday  -  schools,     and 
Graves, 
'T  would  make   George  Colman   melan- 
choly, 
To  have  heard  him,  like  a  male  Molly, 
Chanting  those  stupid  staves. 


Yet  the  Reviews,  who  heaped  abuse 

On  Peter  while  he  wrote  for  freedom, 
So  soon  as  in  his  song  they  spy, 
The  folly  which  soothes  tyranny, 
Praise  him,  for  those  who  feed  'em. 


"  He  was  a  man,  too  great  to  scan; 

A  planet  lost  in  truth's  keen  rays 
His  virtue,  awful  and  prodigious;  — 
He  was  the  most  sublime,  religious, 

Pure-minded  Poet  of  these  days.' 


As  soon  as  he  read  that,  cried  Peter, 

"  Eureka  !   I  have  found  the  way 
To  make  a  better  thing  of  metre 
Than  e'er  was  made  by  living  creature 
Up  to  this  blessed  day." 


Then  Peter  wrote  odes  to  the  Devil: 
In  one  of  which  he  meekly  said: 

"  May  Carnage  and  Slaughter, 

Thy  niece  and  thy  daughter, 

May  Rapine  and  Famine, 

Thy  gorge  ever  cramming, 

Glut  thee  with  living  and  dead  ! 


"  May  death  and  damnation, 

And  consternation, 
Flit  up  from  hell  with  pure  intent ! 

Slash  them  at  Manchester, 

Glasgow,  Leeds,  and  Chester; 
Drench    all    with    blood    from    Avon 
Trent. 


XXXVIII. 

"  Let  thy  body-guard  yeomen 
Hew  down  babes  and  women, 
And  laugh  with  bold  triumph  till  Heaven 
be  rent. 
When  Moloch  in  Jewry, 
Muncht   children  with  fury, 
It  was  thou,  Devil,  dining  with  pure  in- 
tent."1 


PART  THE   SEVENTH. 

DOUBLE    DAMNATION. 


The  Devil  now  knew  his  proper  cue.  — 

Soon  as  he  read  the  ode,  he  drove 
To  his  friend  Lord  MacMurderchouse's, 
A  man  of  interest  in  both  houses, 

And  said :  —  "  For  money  or  for  love, 


"  Pray  find  some  cure  or  sinecure; 

To  feed  from  the  superfluous  taxes, 
A  friend  of  ours  —  a  poet  —  fewer 
Have  fluttered  tamer  to  the  lure 

Than   he."     His   lordship  stands  and 
racks  his 


Stupid  brains,  while  one  might  count 

As  many  beads  as  he  had  boroughs,  — 
At  length  replies;    from  his  mean  front, 
Like  one  who  rubs  out  an  account, 

Smoothing    away  the   unmeaning  fur- 
rows: 

IV. 

"It  happens  fortunately,  dear  Sir, 
I  can.      I  hope  I  need  require 

1  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  often  extremes 
meet.  Cobbettand  Peter  use  the  same  language 
for  a  different  purpose  :  Peter  is  indeed  a  sort  of 
metrical  Cobbett.  Cobbett  is,  however,  more 
mischievous  than  Peter,  because  he  pollutes  a 
holy  and  now  unconquerable  cause  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  legitimate  murder;  whilst  the  otheronly 
makes  n  bad  one  ridiculous  and  odious. 

If  either  Peter  or  Cobbett  should  see  this  note, 

j    each  will  feel  more  indignation  at  being  compared 
to  the  other  than   at  any  censure   implied  in  the 

I    moral  perversion  laid  to  their  charge. 


PETER   BELL    THE    THIRD. 


No  pledge  from  you,  that  he  will  stir 
In  our  affairs;  —  like  Oliver, 

That  he  '11  be  worthy  of  his  hire." 


These  words  exchanged,  the  news  aentoff 

To  Peter,  home  the  Devil  hied,  — 
Took  to  his  bed;    he  had  no  cough, 
No  doctor,  — meat  and  drink  enough,  — 
Vet  that  same  night  he  died. 


The  Devil's  corpse  was  leaded  down: 

His  decent  heirs  enjoyed  his  pelf, 
Mourning-coaches,  many  a  one, 
Followed  his  hearse  along  the  town:- 
Where  was  the  Devil  himself? 


When  Peter  heard  of  his  promotion, 

His  eyes  grew  like  two  stars  for  bliss: 
There  was  a  bow  of  sleek  devotion, 
Engendering  in  his  back;    each  motion 
Seemed  a  Lord's  shoe  to  kiss. 

VIII. 

He    hired    a   house,   bought    plate,    and 
made 

A  genteel  drive  up  to  his  door, 
With  sifted  gravel  neatly  laid,  — 
As  if  defying  all  who  said, 

Peter  was  ever  poor. 


But  a  disease  soon  struck  into 

The  very  life  and  soul  of  Peter  — 
He  walkt  about  —  slept  —  had  the  hue 
Of  health  upon  his  cheeks —  and  few 
Dug  better  —  none  a  heartier  eater. 


And  yet  a  strange  and  horrid  curse 
Clung  upon  Peter,  night  and  day, 
Month  after  month  the  thing  grew  worse, 
And  deadlier  than  in  this  my  verse, 
I  can  find  strength  to  say. 


Peter  was  dull  —  he  was  at  first 
Dull  —  oh,  so  dull  —  so  very  dull  ! 


Whether  he  talkt,  wrote,  or  rehearst  — 
Still  with  this  dulness  was  he  curst  — 
Dull  —  beyond  all  conception  —  dull. 

XII. 

No  one  could  read  his  books  —  no  mortal, 
But  a  few  natural   friends,  would  hear 
him; 
The  parson  came  not  near  his  portal; 
His  state  was  like  that  of  the  immortal 
Described    by  Swift  —  no   man  could 
bear  him. 


His  sister,  wife,  and  children  yawned, 
With  a  long,  slow,  and  drear  ennui, 

All  human  patience  far  beyond; 

Their  hopes  of  Heaven  each  would  have 
pawned, 
Anywhere  else  to  be. 


But  in  his  verse,  and  in  his  prose, 
The  essence  of  his  dulness  was 
Concentred  and  comprest  so  close, 
'T  would  have  made  Guatimozin  doze 
On  his  red  gridiron  of  brass. 


A  printer's  boy,  folding  those  pages, 
Fell  slumbrously  upon  one  side; 

Like  those  famed  seven  who  slept  three 
ages. 

To  wakeful  frenzy's  vigil  rages, 

As  opiates,  were  the  same  applied. 


Even  the  Reviewers  who  were  hired 
To  do  the  work  of  his  reviewing, 
With  adamantine  nerves,  grew  tired;  — 
Gaping  and  torpid  they  retired, 

To    dream    of    what    they    should    be 


And  worse  and  worse,  the  drowsy  curse 
Yawned  in  him,  till  it  grew  a  pest  — 
A  wide  contagious  atmosphere, 
Creeping    like    cold    through    all    things 
near; 
A  power  to  infect  and  to  infest. 


NOTE    ON  PETER    BELL    TILE    THLRD. 


375 


His  servant-maids  and  dogs  grew  dull; 

His  kitten  late  a  sportive  elf, 
The  woods  and  lakes,  so  beautiful, 
Of  dim  stupidity  were  full, 

All  grew  dull  as  Peter's  self. 

XIX. 

The  earth  under  his  feet  —  the  springs, 

Which  lived  within  it  a  quick  life, 
The  air,  the  winds  of  many  wings, 
That  fan  it  with  new  murmurings, 
Were  dead  to  their  harmonious  strife. 


The  birds  and  beasts  within  the  wood, 
The  insects,  and  each  creeping  thing, 

Were  now  a  silent  multitude; 

Love's   work   was   left    unwrought  —  no 
brood 
Near  Peter's  house  took  wing. 


And  every  neighboring  cottager 

Stupidly  yawned  upon  the  other : 
No  jack-ass  brayed;    no  little  cur 
Cockt    up    his    ears; — no    man   would 
stir 
To  save  a  dying  mother. 


Yet  all  from  that  charmed  district  went 

But  some  half-idiot  and  half-knave, 
Who  rather  than  pay  any  rent, 
Would  live  with  marvellous  content, 
Over  his  father's  grave. 


No  bailiff  dared  within  that  space, 

For  fear  of  the  dull  charm,  to  enter; 
A  man  would  bear  upon  his  face, 
For  fifteen  months  in  any  case, 
The  yawn  of  such  a  venture. 

XXIV. 

Seven  miles  above  —  below  —  around  — 

This  pest  of  dulness  holds  its  sway  ; 
A  ghastly  life  without  a  sounds 
To  Peter's  soul  the  spell  is  bound  — 
How  should  it  ever  pass  away? 


NOTE  ON  PETER  BELL  THE 
THIRD,  BY  MRS.  SHELLEY. 

In  this  new  edition  I  have  added  Feter 
Bell  the  Third.  A  critique  on  Words- 
worth's Peter  Bell  reached  us  at  Leghorn, 
which  amused  Shelley  exceedingly,  and 
suggested  this  poem. 

I  need  scarcely  observe  that  nothing 
personal  to  the  author  of  Peter  Bell  is 
intended  in  this  poem.  No  man  ever 
admired  Wordsworth's  poetry  more ;  —  he 
read  it  perpetually,  and  taught  others  to 
appreciate  its  beauties.  This  poem  is, 
like  all  others  written  by  Shelley,  ideal. 
Pie  conceived  the  idealism  of  a  poet —  a 
man  of  lofty  and  creative  genius —  quit- 
ting the  glorious  calling  of  discovering  and 
announcing  the  beautiful  and  good,  to 
support  and  propagate  ignorant  prejudice  s 
and  pernicious  errors;  imparting  to  the 
unenlightened,  not  that  ardor  for  truth 
and  spirit  of  toleration  which  Shelley 
looked  on  as  the  sources  of  the  moral  im- 
provement and  happiness  of  mankind,  but 
false  and  injurious  opinions,  that  evil  was 
good,  and  that  ignorance  and  force  were 
the  best  allies  of  purity  and  virtue.  His 
idea  was  that  a  man  gifted,  even  as  trans- 
cenclently  as  the  author  of  Peter  Bell,  with 
the  highest  qualities  of  genius,  must,  if 
he  fostered  such  errors,  be  infected  with 
dulness.  This  poem  was  written  as  a 
warning  —  not  as  a  narration  of  the  reality. 
He  was  unacquainted  personally  with 
Wordsworth,  or  with  Coleridge  (to  whom 
he  alludes  in  the  fifth  part  of  the  poem), 
and  therefore,  I  repeat,  his  poem  is  purely 
ideal ;  —  it  contains  something  of  criticism 
on  the  compositions  of  those  great  poets, 
but  nothing  injurious  to  the  men  them- 
selves. 

No  poem  contains  more  of  Shelley's 
peculiar  views  with  regard  to  the  errors 
into  which  many  of  the  wisest  have  fallen, 
and  the  pernicious  effects  of  certain  opin- 
ions on  society.  Much  of  it  is  beautifully 
written:  and,  though,  like  the  burlesque 
drama  of  Swellfoot,  it  must  be  looked  on 
as  a  plaything,  it  has  so  much  merit  and 
poetry  —  so  much  of  himself  in  it  —  that 
it  cannot  fail  to  interest  greatly,  and  by 
right  belongs  to  the  world  for  whose  in- 
struction and  benefit  it  was  written. 


376 


LETTER    TO   MARIA    GISBORNE. 


LETTER   TO    MARIA   GISBORNE. 
Leghorn,  July  i,  1S20. 

The  spider  spreads  her  webs,  whether 
she  be 

In  poet's  tower,  cellar,  or  barn,  or  tree; 

The  silk-worm  in  the  dark  green  mul- 
berry leaves 

His  winding  sheet  and  cradle  ever 
weaves; 

So  I,  a  thing  whom  moralists  call  worm, 

Sit  spinning  still  round  this  decaying 
form, 

From  the  fine  threads  of  rare  and  subtle 
thought  — 

No  net  of  words  in  garish  colors  wrought 

To  catch  the  idle  buzzers  of  the  day  — 

But  a  soft  cell,  where  when  that  fades 
away, 

Memory  may  clothe  in  wings  my  living 
name 

And  feed  it  with  the  asphodels  of  fame, 

Which  in  those  hearts  which  most  re- 
member me 

Grow,  making  love  an  immortality. 

Whoever    should    behold    me   now,   I 

wist, 
Would  think  I  were  a  mighty  mechanist, 
Bent  with  sublime  Archimedean  art 
To  breathe  a  soul  into  the  iron  heart 
Of  some  machine  portentous,  or  strange 

gin, 
Which    by    the    force    of    figured    spells 

might  win 
Its  way  over  the  sea,  and  sport  therein; 
For   round    the    walls    are    hung    dread 

engines,  such 
As  Vulcan    never    wrought    for  Jove    to 

clutch 
Ixion  or  the  Titan:  — or  the  quick 
Wit  of  that  man  of   God,  St.  Dominic, 
To  convince  Atheist,  Turk,  or  Heretic, 
Or  those  in  philanthropic  council  met, 
Who   thought   to   pay  some   interest    for 

the  debt 
They  owed  to  Jesus  Christ   for  their  sal- 
vation, 
By  giving  a  faint  foretaste  of  damnation 
To   Shakespeare,    Sidney,    Spenser,   and 

the  rest 
Who  made  our  land  an  island  of  the  blest, 


:  When  lamp-like  Spain,  who  now  relumes 

her  fire 
I  On   Freedom's   hearth,   grew   dim    with 

Empire :  — 
I  With  thumbscrews,   wheels,   with   tooth 

and  spike  and  jag, 
!   Which    fishers    found  under  the  utmost 
J  crag 

!  Of   Cornwall  and    the   storm-encompast 

isles, 
Where   to   the   sky   the   rude   sea  rarely 

smiles 
Unless  in  treacherous  wrath,  as  on   the 

morn 
When  the  exulting  elements  in  scorn 
Satiated  with  destroyed  destruction,  lay 
Sleeping    in    beauty    on     their    mangled 

prey, 
As  panthers  sleep; — and   other  strange 

and  dread 
Magical    forms    the    brick     floor     over- 
spread, — 
Proteus    transformed   to  metal    did    not 

make 
More  figures,  or  more  strange;  nor  did 

he  take 
Such  shapes  of  unintelligible  brass, 
Or  heap  himself  in  such  a  horrid  mass 
Of  tin  and  iron  not  to  be  understood; 
And  forms  of  unimaginable  wood, 
To  puzzle  Tubal  Cain  and  all  his  brood : 
Great   screws,    and  cones,    and   wheels, 

and  grooved  blocks, 
The   elements   of    what   will    stand    the 

shocks 
Of    wave   and   wind  and    time.  —  Upon 

the  table 
More  knacks  and  quips  there  be  than   I 

am  able 
To  catalogize  in  this  verse  of  mine  : — - 
A    pretty    bowl    of    wood  —  not    full    of 

wine. 
But    quicksilver;    that    dew    which    the 

gnomes  drink 
When    at    their    subterranean    toil    they 

swink, 
Pledging  the  demons  of   the  earthquake, 

who 
Reply  to  them  in  lava  —  cry  halloo! 
And    call    out    to    the    cities    o'er    their 

head,— 
Roofs,    towers,    and    shrines-    the    dying 

and  the  dead. 


LETTER    TO    MAR/A    G/SHORiVE. 


377 


Crash  through  the  chinks  of  earth  —  and    |   Lie  heapt  in  their  harmonious  disarray 


then  all  quaff 


Of  figures,  —  disentangle  them  who  may, 


Another  rouse,  and  hold  their  sides  and    j   Baron  deTott's  Memoirs  beside  them  lie, 


lautih 


And  some  odd  volumes  of  old  chemistry. 


This  quicksilver  no  gnome  has   drunk  —      Near  those  a  most  inexplicable  thing, 

within  With  lead  in  the  middle  —  I'm  conjectur- 

The  walnut  bowl  it  lies,  veined  and  thin,  ing 

In    color    like    the    wake    of    light    that    i   I  low    to    make   Henry  understand;    but 

stains  no  — 

The  Tuscan  deep,  when  from  the  moist      I 

moon  rains 
The    inmost    shower  of  its  white  fire  — 

the  breeze 
Is   still  —  blue   heaven    smiles    over   the 

pale  seas. 
And  in  this  bowl  of  quicksilver  — for  I 
Yield  to  the  impulse  of  an  infancy 
Outlasting  manhood  —  I   have   made   to 

float 
A  rude  idealism  of  a  paper  boat :  — 
A  hollow  screw  with  cogs  —  Henry  will 

know 
The  thing  I  mean  and  laugh  at  me,  — if  so 
He  fears  not  I  should  do  more  mischief. 

—  Next 
Lie  bills  and  calculations  much  perplext, 
With     steam-boats,     frigates,    and     ma- 
chinery quaint 
Traced    over   them    in   blue  and  yellow 

paint. 
Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 
Instruments,     for     plans     nautical     and 

statical; 
A  heap  of  rosin,  a  queer  broken  gla-s 
With  ink  in  it;  —  a  china  cup  that  was 
What  it  will  never  be  again,  I  think, 
A  thing  from  which  sweet  lips  were  wont 

to  drink 
The  liquor  doctors  rail  at  —  and  which  I 
Will  quaff   in  spite  of  them  —  and  when 

we  die 
We  '11  toss  up  who  died  first  of  drinking 

tea, 
And  cry  out, — heads   or  tails?  where'er 

we  be. 
Near  that  a  dusty  paint  box,  some  odd 

hooks, 
A    half-burnt     match,    an     ivory    block, 

three  books, 
Where    conic     sections,    spherics,    loga- 
rithms, 
To  great  Laplace,  from  Saunderson  and 

Sims, 


leave,  as  Spenser  says,  with  many 
mo, 
This    secret   in    the    pregnant  womb    of 

time, 
Too  vast  a  matter  for  so  weak  a  rhyme. 

And  here  like  some  weird  Archimage 

sit  I, 
Plotting      dark      spells,      and      devilish 

enginery, 
The   self-impelling   steam-wheels  of   the 

mind 
Which   pump  up   oaths  from  clergymen, 

and  grind 
The  gentle  spirit  of  our  meek  reviews 
Into  a  powdery  foam  of  salt  abuse, 
Ruffling    the     ocean     of     their    self-con- 
tent;— 
I  sit  — and  smile  or  sigh  as  is  my  bent, 
But    not     for    them  —  Libeccio    rushes 

round 
With  an  inconstant  and  an  idle  sound, 
I     heed     him     more     than     them  ■ —  the 

thunder-smoke 
Is    gathering   on    the    mountains,   like   a 

cloak 
Folded  athwart  their  shoulders  broad  and 

bare; 
The  ripe  corn  under  the  undulating  air 
Undulates     like    an     ocean; — and     the 

vines 
Are   trembling  wide   in   all  their  trellist 

lines  — 
The  murmur  of   the  awakening  sea  doth 

fill 
The    empty    pauses    of    the    blast;  — the 

hill 
Looks  hoary  through   the  white    electric 

rain, 
And    from    the    glens   beyond,    in    sullen 

strain, 
The  interrupted  thunder  howls;    above 
One  chasm  of  heaven  smiles,  like  the  eye 

of   Love 


378 


LETTER    TO  MARIA    GTSBORNE. 


On    the     unquiet    world;  —  while    such 

things  are, 
Mow   could    one    worth   your   friendship 

heed  the  war 
Of    worms?    the    shriek   of    the   world's 

carrion  jays, 
Their  censure,  or  their  wonder,  or  their 

praise? 

You  are  not  here  !    the  quaint   witch 
Memory  sees 
In  vacant  chairs,  your  absent  images, 
And  points  where  once  you  sat,  and  now 

should  be 
But  are  not.  — - 1  demand  if  ever  we 
Shall  meet  as  then  we   met;  — and  she 

replies, 
Veiling  in  awe  her  second-sighted  eyes; 
"  I  know  the  past   alone  —  but  summon 

home 
My  sister  Hope,  ■ — ■  she  speaks  of  all  to 

come." 
But  I,  an  old  diviner,  who  knew  well 
Every  false  verse  of  that  sweet  oracle, 
Turned  to  the  sad  enchantress  once  again, 
And   sought   a  respite    from    my  gentle 

pain, 
In  citing  every  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
Of    our  communion  —  how   on   the   sea- 
shore 
We  watcht  the  ocean  and    the  sky    to- 
gether, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather; 
How    I    ran    home    through    last    year's 

thunder-storm, 
And  felt   the  transverse   lightning  linger 

warm 
Upon    my    cheek — and    how    we    often 

made 
Feasts  for  each  other,  where  good  will 

outweighed 
The  frugal  luxury  of  our  country  cheer, 
As  well  it  might,  were  it  less  firm  and 

clear 
Than  ours  must  ever  be;  — and  how  we 

spun 
A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life,  which  seems  to  be 
But  is  not,  — or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe,  and  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
Of  this  wrong  world:  - — and  then  anato- 
mize 


The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  men  whose 

eyes 
Were  closed  in  distant  years;  —  or  widely 

guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business, 
When   we    shall    be    as   we    no    longer 

are  — 
Like  babbling  gossips  safe,  who  hear  the 

war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh,  but  tremble  not;  — 

or  how 
You  listened  to  some  interrupted  flow 
Of  visionary  rhyme,  —  in  joy  and  pain 
Struck  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  my 

brain, 
With  little  skill   perhaps; — or  how  we 

sought 
Those    deepest    wells    of    passion    or  of 

thought 
Wrought  by  wise  poets  in  the  waste  of 

years, 
Staining    their    sacred    waters    with   our 

tears; 
Quenching  a  thirst  ever  to  be  renewed  ! 
Or  how  I,  wisest  lady  !   then  indued 
The  language   of    a  land  which    now  is 

free, 
And  winged  with  thoughts  of  truth  and 

majesty, 
Flits    round    the  tyrant's  sceptre  like   a 

cloud, 
And  bursts  the  peopled  prisons,  and  cries 

aloud, 
"  My  name  is  Legion  !  "  —  that  majestic 

tongue 
Which  Calderon  over  the  desert  flung 
Of     ages    and    of     nations;     and    which 

found 
An    echo    in    our   hearts,   and    with    the 

sound 
Startled  oblivion;  —  thou  wert  then  to  me 
As  is  a  nurse — when  inarticulately 
A  child  would  talk  as  its  grown   parents 

do. 
If  living  winds  the  rapid  clouds  pursue, 
If      hawks     chase     doves     through      the 

ethereal  way, 
Huntsmen  the  innocent  deer,  and  beasts 

their  prey, 
Why  should  not  we  rouse  with  the  spirit's 

blast 
Out  of   the  forest  of  the  pathless  past 
These  recollected  pleasures? 


LETTER    TO   MARIA    GISBORNE. 


379 


You  are  now 
In  London,  that   great   sea,  whose  ebb 

and  flow 
At   once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on    the 

shore 
Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for 

more. 
Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures !     You 

will  see 
That  which  was  Godwin,  —  greater  none 

than  he 
Tho'  fallen  —  and  fallen  on  evil  times  — 

to  stand 
Among  the  spirits  of  our  age  and  land, 
Before  the  dread  tribunal  of  to  come 
The    foremost, — while    Rebuke   cowers 

pale  and  dumb. 
You   will    see    Coleridge  —  he  who    sits 

obscure 
In  the  exceeding  lustre,  and  the  pure 
Intense  irradiation  of  a  mind, 
Which,  with  its  own  internal  lightning 

blind, 
Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  de- 
spair — 
A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air, 
A  hooded  eagle  among  blinking  owls.  — 
You  will  see  Hunt  —  one  of  those  happy 

souls 
Which    are    the    salt   of    the  earth,  and 

without  whom 
This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is  — 

a  tomb; 
Who  is,  what  others  seem;   his  room  no 

doubt 
Is    still    adorned    by  many  a  cast    from 

Shout, 
With  graceful    flowers   tastefully   placed 

about; 
And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribbons  hung, 
And  brighter  wreaths   in    neat    disorder 

flung; 
The    gifts    of    the    most    learn'd    among 

some  dozens 
Of     female    friends,    sisters-in-law,    and 

cousins. 
And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns, 
Which  beat  the  dullest  brain   for  smiles, 

like  duns 
Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door; 
Alas !  it  is  no  use  to  say,  "  I'm  poor !  " 
Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 
Things  wiser  than  were  ever  read  in  book, 


Except    in   Shakespeare's  wisest  tender- 
ness. — 

You  will  see  Hogg,  — and  I  cannot  ex- 
press 

His  virtues,  —  though   I  know  that  they 
are  great, 

Because    he    locks,   then    barricades  the 
gate 

Within  which  they  inhabit;  — of  his  wit 

And   wisdom,    you'll  cry  out   when   you 
are  bit. 

He  is  a  pearl  within  an  oyster  shell, 

One  of  the  richest   6f    the  deep;  — and 
there 

Is  English   Peacock  with  his    mountain 
fair 

Turned  into  a  Flamingo;  —  that  shy  bird 

That  gleams  i'  the  Indian  air  — have  you 
not  heard 

When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns   Hin- 
doo, 

His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him?  — 
but  you 

Will   see   him,   and  will  like  him   too,  I 
hope, 

With  the  milk-white  Snowdonian  Ante- 
lope 

Matcht  with  this  camelopard  —  his   fine 
wit 

Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is   lost 
in  it; 

A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 

Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots;  let  his  page 

Which   charms  the   chosen   spirits  of  the 
time, 

Fold  itself  up  for  the  serener  clime 

Of  years   to  come,    and  find   its  recom- 
pense 

In  that  just  expectation.  —  Wit  and  sense, 

Virtue   and   human   knowledge;    all  that 
irfight 

Make  this   dull    world  a  business  of  de- 
light, 

Are    all   combined   in    Horace   Smith.  — 
And  these, 

With  some  exceptions,  which  I  need  not 
tease 

Your   patience  by   descanting   on, — are 
all 

You  and  I  know  in  London. 

I  recall 

My  thoughts,  and  bid  you  look  upon  the 
night. 


LETTER    TO  MAR  El    G ES 'BORNE. 


As  water   does  a  sponge,   so   the   moon- 

light 
Fills  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air  — 
What  see  you?- — unpavilioned  heaven  is 

fair 
Whether    the    moon,    into   her    chamber 

gone, 
Leaves  midnight  to  the  golden  stars,  or 

wan 
Climbs    with  diminisht  beams  the  azure 

steep; 
Or  whether    clouds   sail  o'er   the  inverse 

deep, 
Piloted  by  the  many-wandering  blast, 
And  the   rare   stars  rush  thro'  them   dim 

and  fast :  — 
All  this  is  beautiful  in  every  land.  — 
But    what    see    you   beside? — -a   shabby 

stand 
Of  Hackney  coaches — a  brick  house  or 

wall 
Fencing  some  lonely   court,   white  with 

the  scrawl 
Of  our  unhappy  politics  ; — or  worse  — 
A   wretched  woman    reeling    by,   whose 

curse 
Mixt  with    the    watchman's,    partner  of 

her  trade, 
You  must  accept  in  place  of  serenade  — 
Or  yellow-haired  Pollonia  murmuring 
To  Henry,  some  unutterable  thing. 
I  see  a  chaos  of  green  leaves  and  fruit 
Built   round   dark   caverns,    even   to   the 

root 
Of  the  living  stems  that  feed  them  —  in 

whose  bowers 
There  sleep  in  their  dark  dew  the  folded 

flowers; 
Beyond,  the  surface  of  the  unsickled  corn   | 
Trembles  not  in  the   slumbering  air,  and   ! 

borne  • 

In     circles     quaint,     and     ever-changing 

dance, 
Like  winged  stars  the  fire-flies  flash   and 

glance, 
Pale  in  the  open  moonshine,  but  each  one 
Under  the  dark  trees  seems  a  little  sun, 
A  meteor  tamed:  a  fix!  star  gone  astray 
From    the    silver    regions    of    the    milky 

way;  — 
Afar  the  Contadino's  song  is  heard, 
Rude,  but  made  sweet  by  distance  —  and 

a  bird 


Which   cannot  be   the  Nightingale,   and 

yet 
I  know  none  else  that  sings  so  sweet  as  it 
At    this    late    hour;  — and    then    all    is 

still  — 
Now  Italy  or  London,  which  you  will ! 

Next  winter  you  must  pass  with   me; 

I  '11  have 
My  house  by  that  time  turned  into  a  grave 
Of  dead  despondence  and  low-thoughted 

care, 
And  all  the  dreams  which  our  tormentors 

are ; 
Oh !    that    Hunt,   Hogg,    Peacock,    and 

Smith  were  there, 
With  everything  belonging  to  them  fair  ! — 
We   will    have    books,    Spanish,    Italian, 

Greek; 
And  ask  one  week  to  make  another  week 
As  like  his  father,  as  I  'm  unlike  mine, 
Which  is  not  his  fault,  as  you  may  divine. 
Though  we  eat  little   flesh   and  drink   no 

wine, 
Yet  let's  be  merry:   we'll  have  tea  and 

toast ; 
Custards  for  supper,  and  an  endless  host 
Of  syllabubs  and  jellies  and  mince-pies, 
And  other  such  lady-like  luxuries,  — 
Feasting  on  which  we  will  philosophize  ! 
And  we  '11  have    fires  out   of    the    Grand 

Duke's  wood, 
To   thaw   the   six  weeks'    winter    in  our 

blood. 
And  then  we  '11  talk;  —  what  shall  we  talk 

about? 
Oh  !   there  are  themes  enough  for  many  a 

bout 
Of    thought-entangled    descant;— as  to 

nerves  — 
With  cones  and  parallelograms  and  curves 
I've  sworn  to  strangle  them  if   once  they 

dare 
To  bother  me  —  when  you   are   with  me 

there. 
And  thev  shall  never  more  sip  laudanum, 
From     Helicon     or     Himeros;1  —  well, 

come, 
And  in  despite  of  God  and  of  the  devil, 
We  Ml  make  our  friendly  philosophic  revel 

1"I/ifpo?,  from  which  the  river  Ilimera  was. 
named,  is,  with  some  slight  shade  of  difference,  a 
synonym  of  Love. 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


38i 


Outlast  the  leafless  time;    till  buds  and      And  o'er  thy  head  did  beat  its  wings  for 

flowers  i  fame, 

Warn  the  obscure  inevitable  hours,  And   in    thy    sight    its    fading    plumes 

Sweet  meeting  by  sad  parting  to  renew ;  —  display ; 

"  To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures      The  watery  bow  burned  in  the  evening 
new."  flame, 

But  the  shower  fell,  the  swift  sun  went 
his  way  — 

THE    WITCH    OF   ATLAS.  I  ^n<^  t^lat  *s  dead.     Oh,  let  me   not   be- 

lieve 
TO  MARY.  '  That  any  thing  of  mine  is  fit  to  live  ! 


(on  her  objecting  to  the  following 
poem,  upon  the  score  of  its  con- 
taining no  human  interest.) 

I. 

How,  my  dear  Mary,  are  you  critic-bit- 
ten, 
(For  vipers  kill,  tho'  dead,)  by  some 
review, 
That  you   condemn   these   verses  I  have 
written, 
Because  they  tell  no  story,  false  or  true  ! 
What,    tho'    no    mice    are    caught  by    a 
young  kitten, 


IV. 

Wordsworth  informs  us  he  was  nineteen 
years 
Considering     and     retouching      Peter 
Bell; 
Watering  his  laurels  with  the  killing  tears 
Of  slow,  dull  care,  so  that  their  roots 
to  hell 
Might  pierce,   and   their   wide  branches 
blot  the  spheres 
Of     heaven,    with     dewy    leaves     and 
flowers;    this  well 
May  be,  for  Heaven  and  Earth  conspire 
to  foil 


May  k^ not  leap  and  play  as  grown  cats   ;  The  over.busy  gardener's  blundering  toil. 


Till  its  claws  come  ?     Prithee,  for  this  one 

time, 
Content  thee  with  a  visionary  rhyme. 


Wrhat  hand  would  crush  the  silken-winged 

fl>'' 
The  youngest  of  inconstant  April's  min- 
ions, 
Because  it  cannot  climb  the  purest  sky, 
Where  the  swan  sings,  amid  the  sun's 
dominions? 
Not  thine.     Thou  knowest  't  is  its  doom 
to  die, 
When   day  shall  hide  within  her  twi- 
light pinions 
The  lucent  eves,  and  the  eternal  smile, 
Serene  as  thine,  which  lent  it  life  awhile. 


To  thy  fair  feet  a  winged  Vision  came, 
Whose  date  should  have  been  longer 
than  a  day, 


My    Witch    indeed    is    not    so    sweet     a 

creature 
As  Ruth  or   Lucy,  whom   his  graceful 

praise 
Clothes     for     our    grandsons  —  but    she 

matches  Peter, 
Tho'    he    took    nineteen    years,    and 

she  three  days 
In  dressing,     light  the  vest  of  flowing 

metre 
She  wears;    he,   proud  as    dandy  with 

his  stays, 
Has  hung  upon  his  wiry  limbs  a  dress 
Like  King  Lear's  "  loopt  and  windowed 

raggedness." 


If  you  strip  Peter,  you  will  see  a  fellow, 
Scorcht  by  Hell's   hyperequatorial  cli' 
mate 
Into  a  kind  of  a  sulphureous  yellow: 


THE    WITCH  OF  A  TLAS. 


A    lean   mark,    hardly    fit    to    fling    a 
rhyme  at; 
In  shape  a  Scaramouch,  in  hue  Othello. 
If  you  unveil  my  Witch,  no  priest  nor 
primate 
Can  shrive  you  of  that  sin,  — if  sin  there 

be 
In  love,  when  it  becomes  idolatry. 


THE   WITCH    OF   ATLAS. 


Before  those  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one 
birth 
Incestuous  Change  bore   to  her  father 
Time, 
Error   and   Truth,  had   hunted  from   the 
Earth 
All  those  bright  natures  which  adorned 
its  prime, 
And  left  us  nothing  to  believe  in,  worth 
The    pains    of    putting    into    learned 
rhyme, 
A  Lady-Witch  there  lived  on  Atlas'  moun- 
tain 
Within  a  cavern,  by  a  secret  fountain. 


Her  mother  was  one  of  the  Atlantides: 
The  all-beholding  Sun   had  ne'er   be- 
holden 
In  his  wide  voyage   o'er   continents  and 
seas 
So  fair  a  creature,  as  she  lay  enfolden 
In  the  warm  shadow  of  her  loveliness;  — 
He    kist    her    with    his     beams,    and 
made  all  golden 
The  chamber  of  gray  rock  in  which  she 

lay- 
She,    in    that    dream     of    joy,    dissolved 
away. 

ill. 

'Tis  said,  she   first  was   changed  into   a 
vapor, 
And  then  into  a  cloud,  such  clouds  as 
flit, 
Like    splendor-winged     moths     about     a 
taper, 
Round  the  red  west  when  the  sun  dies 
in  it : 
And  then  into  a  meteor,  such  as  caper 


On  hill-tops   when   the    moon   is   in  a 
fit: 
Then,  into  one  of  those  mysterious  stars 
Which     hide     themselves    between    the 
Earth  and  Mars. 


Ten  times  the  Mother  of  the  Months  had 

bent 
Her  bow  beside   the  folding-star,  and 

bidden 
With  that  bright  sign  the  billows  to  in- 
dent 
The  sea-deserted  sand  —  like  children, 

chidden, 
At   her   command   they    ever    came    and 

went  — 
Since  in    that    cave    a  dewy   splendor 

hidden 
Took  shape  and  motion :   with  the  living 

form 
Of  this  embodied  Power,  the  cave  grew 

warm. 


A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light 

From  her  own  beauty  —  deep  her  eyes, 
as  are 
Two  openings  of  unfathomable  night 
Seen  thro'  a  Temple's  cloven  roof  ;  — 
her  hair 
Dark  —  the   dim  brain  whirls  dizzy  with 
delight, 
Picturing   her    form;     her    soft    smiles 
shone  afar, 
And  her  low  voice  was  heard   like   love, 

and  drew 
All  living  things  towards  this  wonder  new. 


And  first  the  spotted  camelopard  came, 
And   then   the   wise    and    fearless  ele- 
phant; 
Then    the    sly    serpent,    in    the     golden 
flame 
Of  his  own  volumes  intervolved;  — all 
gaunt 
And    sanguine    beasts    her    gentle    looks 
made  tame. 
They  drank   before   her   at   her  sacred 
fount; 


THE    WITCH   OF  ATLAS. 


383 


And  every  beast  of  beating  heart  grew 
bold, 

Such  gentleness  and  power  even  to  be- 
hold. 


The  brinded  lioness  led  forth  her  young, 
That  she  might  teach  them  how  they  ! 
should  forego 
Their   inborn   thirst   of  death;    the   pard 
unstrung 
His  sinews  at  her  feet,  and   sought   to 
know 
With  looks  whose  motions  spoke  without 
a  tongue 
How   he   might   be    as    gentle    as    the 
doe. 
The  magic  circle  of  her  voice  and  eyes 
All  savage  natures  did  imparadise. 


And  old  Silenus,  shaking  a  green  stick 

Of  lilies,  and  the  wood-gods  in  a  crew 
Came,    blithe,    as    in    the    olive    copses 
thick 
Cicadae  are,  drunk   with   the   noonday 
dew: 
And  Dryope  and  Faunus  followed  quick, 
Teasing  the  God   to   sing   them   some- 
thing new; 
Till  in  this  cave  they  found  the  lady  lone, 
Sitting  upon  a  seat  of  emerald  stone. 


And  universal  Pan,  't  is  said,  was  there, 
And  tho'  none  saw   him, — thro'    the 
adamant 
Of  the  deep  mountains,  thro'  the  track- 
less air, 
And   thro'  those  living  spirits,  like  a 
want 
He  past  out  of  his  everlasting  lair 

Where   the   quick    heart   of    the   great 
world  doth  pant, 
And  felt  that  wondrous  lady  all  alone,  — 
And    she    felt    him,    upon    her    emerald 
throne. 


And  every  nymph  of  stream  and  spread- 
ing tree, 


And    every    shepherdess    of    Ocean's 
flocks, 
Who   drives   her   white   waves   ovej  the 
green  sea, 
And  Ocean  with  the  brine  on  his  gray 
locks, 
And  quaint  Priapus  with  his  company, 
All   came,  much   wondering  how   the 
enwombed  rocks 
Could  have  brought  forth  so  beautiful  a 

birth;  — 
Her  love  subdued  their  wonder  and  their 
mirth. 

XI. 

The  herdsmen  and  the  mountain  maidens 

came, 
And  the  rude  kings  of  pastoral  Gara- 

mant  — 
Their   spirits    shook    within    them,   as   a 

flame 
Stirred    by    the    air    under    a    cavern 

gaunt : 
Pigmies,    and    Polyphemes,   by   many   a 

name, 
Centaurs  and  Satyrs,  and  such  shapes 

as  haunt 
Wet  clefts,  — and  lumps  neither  alive  nor 

dead, 
Dog-headed,     bosom-eyed,     and     bird- 
footed. 

XII. 

For  she  was  beautiful  —  her  beauty  made 
The  bright  world  dim,  and  everything 
beside 
Seemed    like    the    fleeting   image    of    a 
shade: 
No  thought  of  living  spirit  could  abide, 
Which  to  her  looks  had  ever  been  be- 
trayed, 
On  any  object  in  the  world  so  wide, 
On  any  hope  within  the  circling  skies, 
But  on  her  form,  and  in  her  inmost  eyes. 

XIII. 

Which  when   the   Lady  knew,  she   took 

her  spindle 
And    twined    three    threads    of    fleecy 

mist,  and  three 
Long  lines  of   light,   such  as  the  dawn 

may  kindle 


3§4 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


The  clouds  and  waves  and  mountains 

with;    and  she 

As    many    star-beams,    ere    their    lamps 

could  dwindle 

In  the  belated  moon,  wound  skilfully; 

And  with  these  threads  a  subtle  veil  she 

wove  — 
A  shadow  for  the  splendor  of  her  love. 


The  deep  recesses  of  her  odorous  dwell- 
ing 
Were   stored  with   magic  treasures  — 
sounds  of  air, 
Which  had  the  power  all  spirits  of  com- 
pelling, 
Folded  in  cells  of  crystal  silence  there; 
Such  as  we  hear  in  youth,  and  think  the 
feeling 
Will  never  die  —  yet  ere  we  are  aware, 
The  feeling  and  the  sound  are  fled  and 

gone, 
And  the  regret  they  leave  remains  alone, 


And  there  lay  Visions  swift,  and  sweet, 
and  quaint, 
Each  in  its  thin  sheath,  like  a  chrysalis, 
Some  eager  to  burst    forth,  some  weak 
and  faint 
With    the    soft    burden    of    intensest 
bliss; 
It  was  their  work  to  bear  to  many  a  saint 
Whose  heart  adores  the  shrine  which 
holiest  is, 
Even  Love's:  — and  others  white,  green, 

gray,  and  black, 
And  of  all  shapes  —  and  each  was  at  her 
beck. 


And  odors  in  a  kind  of  aviary 

Of  ever-blooming  Eden-trees  she  kept, 
Clipt  in  a  floating  net,  a  love-sick  Fairy 
Had  woven  from  dew-beams  while  the 
moon  yet  slept; 
As  bats  at  the  wired  window  of  a  dairy, 
They  beat   their  vans;    and    each    was 
an  adept, 
When    loosed     and     missioned,    making 

wings  of  winds, 
To  stir  sweet  thoughts  or  sad,  in  destined 
minds. 


And    liquors    clear    and    sweet,    whose 
healthful  might 
Could  medicine  the  sick  soul  to  happy 
sleep, 
And  change  eternal  death  into  a  night 
Of  glorious  dreams  —  or  if  eyes  need? 
must  weep, 
Could  make  their  tears  all  wonder  and 
delight, 
She   in    her   crystal   vials    did   closely 
keep : 
If  men  could  drink  of  those  clear  vials, 

't  is  said 
The  living  were  not  envied  of  the  dead. 


Her    cave    was    stored    with    scrolls    of 
strange  device, 
The  works  of   some   Saturnian  Archi- 
mage, 
Which   taught   the    expiations   at  whose 
price 
Men   from   the   Gods  might   win  that 
happy  age 
Too  lightly  lost,  redeeming  native  vice; 
And   which   might  quench   the  Earth- 
consuming  rage 
Of  gold  and  blood  —  till  men  should  live 

and  move 
Harmonious  as  the  sacred  stars  above; 


And  how  all   things    that    seem  untam- 
able, 
Not    to    be    checkt    and    not    to    be 
confined, 
Obey    the    spells    of    wisdom's    wizard 
skill; 
Time,  earth,   and  fire,   the   ocean   and 
the  wind, 
And    all    their    shapes,    and    man's    im- 
perial will; 
And  other  scrolls  whose  writings  did 
unbind 
The  inmost  lore  of  Love  —  let  the  profane 
Tremble  to  ask  what  secrets  they  contain. 


And  wondrous  works  of  substances  un- 
known, 


THE    WITCH  OE  ATLAS. 


38s 


To    which    the    enchantment    of    her 
father's  power 
Had    changed    those    ragged    blocks    of 
savage  stone, 
Were   heapt    in    the    recesses    of   her 
bower; 
Carved    lamps    and    chalices,    and    vials 
which  shone 
In  their  own  golden  beams  —  each  like 
a  flower, 
Out  of   whose  depth  a  fire-fly  shakes  his 

light 
Under  a  cypress  in  a  starless  night. 

XXI. 

At  first  she  lived  alone  in  this  wild  home, 
And  her   own   thoughts   were   each  a 
minister, 
Clothing  themselves,  or  with  the  ocean 
foam, 
Or  with  the  wind,  or  with  the  speed 
of  fire, 
To  work  whatever  purposes  might  come 
Into  her  mind;  such  power  her  mighty 
Sire 
Had  girt  them  with,  whether  to  fly  or 

run, 
Through  all  the  regions  which  he  shines 
upon. 

XXII. 

The  Ocean-nymphs  and  Hamadryades, 
Oreads  and  Naiads,  with  long  weedy 
locks, 
Offered    to    do    her    bidding    thro'    the 
seas, 
Under   the    earth,    and  in  the    hollow 
rocks, 
And    far    beneath    the    matted    roots  of 
trees, 
And  in  the  gnarled  heart  of  stubborn 
oaks, 
So  they  might  live  for  ever  in  the  light 
Of  her  sweet  presence  —  each  a  satellite. 


"This   may   not  be,"  the   Wizard  Maid 

replied ; 
"  The    fountains    where    the    Naiades 

bedew 
Their  shining  hair,  at  length  are  drained 

and  dried; 


The   solid  oaks  forget   their  strength, 
and  strew 
Their    latest    leaf    upon    the    mountains 
wide; 
The  boundless    ocean  like   a  drop  of 
dew 
•  Will  be  consumed — the  stubborn  centre 

must 
i   Be    scattered,   like    a  cloud    of    summer 
dust. 

XXIV. 

I    "And  ye  with  them  will   perish,  one  by 
one;  — 
If   I  must  sigh  to  think  that   this   shall 
be, 
I    If   I  must  weep  when  the  surviving  Sun 
Shall  smile   on  your  decay  — oh,   ask 
not  me 
I    To  love  you  till  your  little  race  is  run; 

I  cannot  die  as  ye  must  —  over  me 
\    Your  leaves  shall  glance  —  the  streams 
in  which  ye  dwell 
Shall  be  my  paths  henceforth,  and  so  — 
farewell !  — 

XXV. 

She    spoke    and    wept :  —  the    dark  and 
azure  well 
Sparkled  beneath  the   shower  of   her 
bright  tears, 
And  every  little  circlet  where  they  fell 
Flung   to   the    cavern-roof    inconstant 
spheres 
And     intertangled     lines     of     light: — a 
knell 
Of  sobbing  voices  came  upon  her  ears 
From   those   departing   Forms,  o'er  the 

serene 
Of  the  white  streams  and   of  the   forest 
green. 

XXVI. 

All  day  the  Wizard  Lady  sate  aloof, 

Spelling  out  scrolls  of  dread  antiquity, 
Under  the  cavern's  fountain-lighted  roof; 

Or  broidering  the  pictured  poesy 
Of    some    high    talc    upon   her   growing 
woof, 
Which    the    sweet    splendor    of    her 
smiles  could  dye 


386 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


In  hues  outshining  Heaven  —  and  ever 

she 
Added  some  grace  to  the  wrought  poesy. 


While  on  her  hearth  lay  blazing  many  a 
piece 
Of  sandal-wood,  rare  gums,  and  cin- 
namon; 
Men    scarcely  know   how  beautiful  fire 
is  — 
Each  flame  of  it  is  as  a  precious  stone 
Dissolved  in  ever-moving  light,  and  this 
Belongs'  to    each    and    all    who    gaze 
upon. 
The  Witch  beheld  it  not,  for  in  her  hand 
She  held  a  woof  that  dimmed  the  burn- 
ing brand. 


This  Lady  never  slept,  but  lay  in  trance 
All  night  within  the   fountain  —  as  in 

sleep. 
Its  emerald  crags  glowed  in  her  beauty's 

glance; 
Thro'   the   green  splendor  of  the  water 

deep 
She  saw  the  constellations  reel  and  dance 
Like   fire-flics  —  and  withal    did    ever 

keep 
The  tenor  of  her  contemplations  calm, 
With  open  eyes,  closed  feet  and  folded 

palm. 

XXIX. 

And  when  the  whirlwinds  and  the  clouds 
descended 

From  the  white  pinnacles  of  that  cold 
hill, 
She  past  at  dewfall  to  a  space  extended, 

Where  in  a  lawn  of  flowering  asphodel 
Amid  a  wood  of  pines  and  cedars  blended, 

There  yawned  an  inextinguishable  well 
Of  crimson  fire — ■  full  even  to  the  brim, 
And  overflowing  all  the  margin  trim. 


Within    the    which    she     lay    when    the 
fierce  war 
Of  wintry  winds  shook  that  innocuous 
liquor 


In  many  a  mimic  moon  and  bearded  star 
O'er  woods  and  lawns;  — the  serpent 
heard  it  flicker 

In  sleep,   and    dreaming  still,  he    crept 
afar  — 
And    when    the    windless    snow    de- 
scended thicker 

Than  autumn    leaves,    she   watcht  it  as 
it  came 

Melt  on  the  surface  of  the  level  flame. 

XXXI. 

She  had  a  Boat,  which  some  say  Vulcan 
wrought 
For  Venus,  as  the  chariot  of  her  star; 
But  it  was  found  too  feeble  to  be  fraught 
With    all    the   ardors    in    that    sphere 
which  are, 
And  so  she  sold  it,  and  Apollo  bought 
And  gave  it  to  this  daughter:    from  a 
car 
Changed  to  the   fairest  and  the  lightest 

boat 
Which    ever    upon    mortal    stream    did 
float. 

XXXII. 

And    others  say,  that,  when  but    three 
hours  old, 
The  first-born  Love  out  of  his  cradle 
leapt, 
And  clove  dun  Chaos  with  his  wings  of 
gold, 
And  like  a  horticultural  adept, 
Stole  a  strange  seed,  and  wrapt  it  up   in 
mould, 
And  sowed  it  in  his  mother's  star,  and 
kept 
Watering   it  all  the  summer  with  sweet 

dew, 
And  with  his  wings  fanning  it  as  it  grew. 


The    plant   grew   strong   and  green,  the 
snowy  flower 
Fell,    and    the    long    and    gourd -like 
fruit  began 
To    turn   the    light    and   dew  by  inward 
power 
To  its  own  substance;    woven  tracery 
ran 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


Of  light  firm  texture,  ribbed  and  branch- 
ing, o'er 
The    solid    rind,    like    a  leaf's   veined 
fan  — 

Of   which    Love   scoopt  this  boat  —  and 
with  soft  motion 

Piloted  it  round  the  circumfluous  ocean. 

xxxiv. 
T  his  boat  she  moored  upon  her  fount, 
and  lit 
A  living  spirit  within  all  its  frame, 
Breathing  the  soul  of  swiftness  into  it. 
Coucht     on      the     fountain      like      a 
panther  tame, 
One  of  the  twain  at  Evan's  feet  that  sit  ■ — ■ 
Or  as  on  Vesta's  sceptre  a  swift  flame  — 
Or    on   blind    Homer's  heart   a    winged 

thought,  — 
In  joyous  expectation  lay  the  boat. 

xxxv. 
Then  by  strange  art  she  kneaded  fire   and 
snow 
Together,     tempering    the    repugnant 
mass 
With    liquid    love  —  all   things    together 
grow 
Thro'  which  the  harmony  of  love  can 
pass; 
And  a  fair   Shape  out  of  her   hands  did 
flow  — 
A  living  Image,  which  did  far  surpass 
In  beauty  that  bright  shape  of  vital  stone 
Which  drew  the  heart  out  of   Pygmalion. 

XXXVI. 

A  sexless  thing  it  was,  and  in  its  growth 

It  seemed  to  have  developt  no  defect 
Of  either  sex,  yet  all  the  grace  of  both,  — 
In    gentleness   and    strength   its  limbs 
were  deckt; 
The   bosom   lightly  swelled   with  its   full 
youth, 
The    countenance   was   such   as   might 
select 
Some  artist  that  his  skill  should  never  die, 
Imaging  forth  such  perfect  purity. 

XXXVII. 

From  its  smooth  shoulders  hung  two  rapid 
wings, 


Fit  to  have  borne  it  to  the  seventh  sphere 
Tipt  with  the  speed  of  liquid  lightnings, 

Dyed  in  the  ardors  of  the  atmosphere : 

She  led  her  creature  to  the  boiling  springs 

Where  the  light  boat  was  moored,  and 

said:    "  Sit  here  !  " 

And   pointed  to  the  prow,  and  took  her 

seat 
Beside  the  rudder,  with  opposing  feet. 

XXXVIII. 

And  down  the  streams  which  clove  those 
mountains  vast, 
Around  their  inland  islets,  and  amid 
The  panther-peopled  forests,  whose  shade 
cast 
Darkness  and  odors,  and  a  pleasure  hid 
In  melancholy  gloom,  the  pinnace  past; 

By  many  a  star-surrounded  pyramid 
Of  icy  crag  cleaving  the  purple  sky, 
And  caverns  yawning   round  unfathoma- 
bly. 

XXXIX. 
The  silver  noon  into  the  winding  dell, 
With  slanted  gleam  athwart  the  forest 
tops, 
Tempered    like    golden    evening,    feebly 
fell; 
A  green   and  glowing   light,  like  that 
which  drops 
From  folded   lilies  in  which  glow-worms 
dwell, 
When  earth  over  her  face  night's  man- 
tle wraps; 
Between   the   severed   mountains  lay  on 

high, 
Over  the  stream,  a  narrow  rift  of  sky. 


And  ever  as  she  went,  the  Image  lay 
With    folded   wings   and  unawakened 
eyes; 
And  o'er  its  gentle  countenance  did  play 
The  busy  dreams,  as  thick  as  summer 
flies, 
Chasing  the  rapid  smiles  that  would  not 
stay, 
And  drinking  the  warm   tears,  and  the 
sweet  siidis 
Inhaling,  which,  with  busy  murmur  vain, 
They  had  aroused  from  that  full  heart  and 
brain. 


vSS 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


And  ever   down   the  prone  vale,  like  a 
cloud 
Upon  a  stream  of    wind,   the  pinnace 
went : 

Now    lingering   on   the   pools,   in  which 
abode 
The   calm    and    darkness   of  the  deep 
content 

In  which  they  paused;  now  o'er  the  shal- 
low road 
Of   white  and   dancing  waters,   all  be- 
sprent 

With  sand  and  polisht  pebbles : —mor- 
tal boat 

In  such  a  shallow  rapid  could  not  float. 


And    down    the   earthquaking    cataracts 
which  shiver 
Their  snow-like  waters  into  golden  air, 
Or  under  chasms  unfathomable  ever 
Sepulchre  them,  till  in  their  rage  they 
tear 
A  subterranean  portal  for  the  river, 
It  fled  —  the  circling  sunbows  did  up- 
bear 
Its  fall  down  the  hoar  precipice  of  spray, 
Lighting  it  far  upon  its  lampless  way. 


And  when  the  Wizard  Lady  would  ascend 
The   labyrinths  of  some   many-winding 
vale, 
Which  to  the   inmost   mountain  upward 
tend  — 
She  called  "  Hermaphroditus  !  "—and 
the  pale 
And  heavy  hue  which  slumber  could  ex- 
tend 
Over  its  lips  and  eyes,  as  on  the  gale 
A  rapid  shadow  from  a  slope  of  grass, 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  stream  did  pass. 


And    it   unfurled   its  heaven-colored   pin- 
ions, 
With  stars  of  fire  spotting  the  stream   , 
below;  j 


And  from  above  into  the  Sun's  dominions 
Flinging  a  glory,  like  the  golden  glow 
In    which    Spring    clothes   her   emerald- 
winged  minions, 
All  interwoven  with  fine  feathery  snow 
And  moonlight  splendor  of  intensest  rime, 
With  which  frost  paints  the  pines  in  win- 
ter time. 


And  then  it  winnowed  the  Elysian  air 

Which  ever  hung  about  that  Lady  bright, 
With   its   ethereal   vans  —  and    speeding 
there, 
Like  a  star  up  the  torrent  of  the  night, 
Or  a  swift  eagle  in  the  morning  glare 
Breasting  the  whirlwind  with  impetu- 
ous flight, 
The   pinnace,  oared  by  those    enchanted 

wings, 
Clove    the    fierce    streams   towards    their 
upper  springs. 


The    water    flasht    like    sunlight    by  the 
prow 
Of  a  noon-wandering  meteor  flung  to 
Heaven; 
The   still  air   seemed  as  if  its  waves  did 
flow 
In  tempest  down  the  mountains;  loose- 
ly driven 
The  Lady's  radiant  hair  streamed  to  and 
fro: 
Beneath,    the    billows     having    vainly 
striven 
Indignant  and  impetuous,  roared  to  feel 
The  swift  and  steady  motion  of  the  keel. 

XI.VII. 

Or,   when   the  weary   moon  was   in  the 
wane, 
Or  in  the  noon  of  interlunar  night. 
The  Lady- Witch  in  visions  could  not  chain 
Her  spirit;    but  sailed  forth   under  the 
light 
Of  shooting  stars,  and  bade  extend  amain 
Its  storm-outspeeding  wings  the  Her- 
maphrodite; 
She  to  the  Austral  waters  took  her  way, 
Beyond  the  fabulous  Thamondocana; 


THE    WITCH  OE  ATLAS. 


389 


XLVIII. 

Where,  like  a  meadow  which  no  scythe 
has  shaven, 
Which  rain  could  never  bend,  or  whirl- 
blast  shake, 
With  the  Antarctic  constellations  paven, 
Canopus  and  his  crew,  lay  the  Austral 
lake  — 
There  she  would  build  herself  a  windless 
haven 
Out  of  the  clouds  whose  moving  turrets 
make 
The  bastions  of  the  storm,  when  thro' 

the  sky 
The  spirits  of  the  tempest  thundered  by; 


A  haven  beneath  whose  translucent  floor 
The  tremulous  stars  sparkled  unfath- 
omably, 

And  around  which  the  solid  vapors  hoar, 
Based  on  the  level  waters,  to  the  sky 

Lifted   their  dreadful  crags,  and  like  a 
shore 
Of  wintry  mountains,  inaccessibly 

Hemmed  in  with  rifts  and  precipices  gray, 

And  hanging  crags,  many  a  cove  and  bay. 


And  whilst  the   outer  lake  beneath  the 
lash 
Of  the  wind's  scourge,  foamed  like  a 
wounded  thing 
And  the  incessant  hail  with  stony  clash 
Ploughed  up  the  waters,  and  the  flag- 
ging wing 
Of  the  roused  cormorant  in  the  lightning 
flash 
Lookt  like  the  wreck  of  some  wind- 
wandering 
Fragment  of  inky  thunder-smoke — -this 

haven 
Was  as  a  gem  to  copy  Heaven  engraven. 


On  which  that   Lady   played  her   many 
pranks, 
Circling  the  image  of  a  shooting  star, 
Even  as  a  tiger  on  Hydaspes'  banks 
Outspeeds  the  antelopes  which  speed- 
iest are, 


In  her  light  boat;    and  many  quips  and 
cranks 
She  played  upon  the  water,  till  the  car 
Of  the  late  moon,  like  a  sick  matron  wan, 
To  journey  from  the  misty  east  began. 


And  then  she  called  out  of   the  hollow 
turrets 
Of  those  high  clouds,   white,    golden 
and  vermilion, 
The  armies  of  her  ministering  spirits  — 

In  mighty  legions,  million  after  million, 
They  came,  each   troop   emblazoning  its 
merits 
On  meteor  flags;    and   many  a   proud 
pavilion 
Of  the  intertexture  of  the  atmosphere 
They  pitcht   upon  the  plain  of  the  calm 
mere. 

LIII. 

They  framed  the  imperial   tent  of   their 
great  Queen 
Of  woven  exhalations,  underlaid 
WTith  lambent  lightning-fire,  as   may  be 
seen 
A  dome  of  thin  and  open  ivory  inlaid 
With   crimson   silk  —  cressets    from    the 
serene 
Hung  there,  and  on  the  water  for  her 
tread 
A  tapestry  of  fleece-like  mist  was  strewn, 
Dyed  in  the  beams  of  the  ascending  moon. 

LIV. 

And  on  a  throne  o'erlaid  with  starlight, 
caught 
Upon    those   wandering   isles  of    aery 
dew, 

Which  highest  shoals  of  mountain  ship- 
wreck not, 
She  sate,  and  heard  all  that  had  hap- 
pened new, 

Between  the  earth  and  moon,  since  they 
had  brought 
The  last  intelligence  —  and   now  she 
grew 

Pale  as  that   moon,   lost  in   the   watery 
night  — 

And  now  she  wept,  and  now  she  laught 
outright. 


390 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


These  were  tame   pleasures;    she  would 
often  climb 
The  steepest  ladder  of  the  crudded  rack 
Up  to  some  beaked  cape  of  cloud  sublime, 
And  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back 
Ride  singing  through  the  shoreless  air;  — 
oft-time 
Following     the     serpent     lightning's 
winding  track, 
She  ran  upon  the  platforms  of  the  wind, 
And    laught  to  hear  the   fire-balls   roar 
behind. 

LVI. 

And  sometimes  to  those  streams  of  upper 

air 
Which  whirl   the  earth  in   its   diurnal 

round, 
She  would  ascend,  and  win  the  spirits 

there 
To  let  her  join  their  chorus.      Mortals 

found 
That  on  those  days  the  sky  was  calm  and 

fair, 
And    mystic   snatches    of    harmonious 

sound 
Wandered  upon  the   earth  where'er  she 

past, 
And  happy  thoughts  of  hope,  too  sweet 

to  last. 

LVII. 

But  her  choice  sport  was,  in  the  hours  of 
sleep, 
To  glide  adown  old  Nilus,  where  he 
threads 
Egypt  and  ^Ethiopia,  from  the  steep 

Of  utmost  Axume,  until  he  spreads, 
Like  a  calm  flock  of  silver-fleeced  sheep, 
His  waters  on  the   plain:   and  crested 
heads 
Of  cities  and  proud  temples  gleam  amid, 
And  many  a  vapor-belted  pyramid. 


By  Moeris  and  the  Mareotid  lakes, 

Strewn   with  faint  blooms  like  bridal- 
chamber  floors, 
Where  naked   boys  bridling   tame  water- 
snakes, 
Or  charioteering  ghastly  alligators, 


Had    left   on   the   sweet   waters    mighty 

wakes 
Of    those    huge    forms  —  within    the 

brazen  doors 
Of  the   great  Labyrinth  slept  both  boy 

and  beast, 
Tired   with   the  pomp   of    their   Osirian 

feast. 


And  where  within  the  surface  of  the  river 
The  shadows  of  the  massy  temples  lie, 
And  never  are  erased  —  but  tremble  ever 
Like    things    which    every    cloud    can 
doom  to  die, 
Thro'    lotus-paven    canals,    and    where- 
soever 
The   works   of  man   pierced    that   se- 
renest  sky 
With    tombs,    and    towers,    and    fanes, 

't  was  her  delight 
To  wander  in  the  shadow  of  the  night. 


With  motion  like  the  spirit  of  that  wind 
Whose  soft  step  deepens  slumber,  her 
light  feet 
Past  through  the  peopled  haunts  of   hu- 
man kind, 
Scattering  sweet  visions  from  her  pres- 
ence sweet, 
Through  fane,  and  palace-court,  and  laby- 
rinth mined 
With  many  a  dark   and   subterranean 
street 
Under    the    Nile,    thro'    chambers    high 

and  deep 
She  past,  observing  mortals  in  their  sleep. 


A  pleasure  sweet  doubtless  it  was  to  see 
Mortals  subdued  in  all  the  shapes  of 
sleep. 
Here  lay  two  sisters  twins  in  infancy; 
There,  a  lone  youth  who  in  his  dreams 
did  weep; 
Within,  two  lovers  linked  innocently 
In  their  loose   locks  which    over  both 
did  creep 
Like  ivy  from  one  stem;  —  and  there  lay 
calm 


THE    WITCH   OF  ATLAS. 


391 


Old  age  with  snow-bright  hair  and  folded 
palm. 


But  other   troubled   forms  of    sleep  she 
saw, 
Not  to  be  mirrored  in  a  holy  song  — 
Distortions  foul  of  supernatural  awe, 

And  pale  imaginings  of  visioned  wrong; 

And  all  the  code  of  custom's  lawless  law 

Written   upon  the   brows   of    old   and 

young : 

1 '  This, ' '  said  the  Wizard  Maiden,  ' '  is  the 

strife 
Which  stirs  the  liquid  surface  of  man's 
life." 


And  little  did  the  sight  disturb  her  soul. — 
We,  the  weak   mariners  of  that  wide 
lake 
Where'er  its  shores    extend    or    billows 
roll, 
Our  course  unpiloted  and  starless  make 
O'er    its   wild    surface    to   an    unknown 
goal:  — 
But  she  in  the  calm   depths   her  way 
could  take, 
Where  in  bright  bowers   immortal  forms 

abide 
Beneath  the  weltering  of  the  restless  tide. 


And  she    saw  princes  coucht  under  the 
glow 
Of  sunlike  gems;    and  round  each  tem- 
ple-court 
In  dormitories  ranged,  row  after  row, 
She  saw  the  priests  asleep  —  all  of  one 
sort  — 
For  all  were  educated  to  be  so.  — 

The  peasants  in  their  huts,  and  in  the 
port 
The  sailors  she  saw  cradled  on  the  waves, 
And  the  dead  lulled  within  their   dream- 
less graves. 


And  all  the  forms  in  which  those  spirits 
lay 
Were  to  her  sight  like  the  diaphanous 


Veils,   in   which    those   sweet   ladies  oft 
array 
Their  delicate  limbs,  who  would  con- 
ceal from  us 

Only  their  scorn  of  all  concealment:  they 
Move  in  the  light  of  their  own  beauty 
thus. 

But  these  and  all  now  lay  with  sleep  upon 
them, 

And  little  thought  a  Witch  was  looking 
on  them. 


She,  all   those   human   figures   breathing 
there, 
Beheld  as  living  spirits  —  to  her  eyes 
The  naked  beauty  of  the  soul  lay  bare, 
And    often    thro'    a    rude     and    worn 
disguise 
She  saw  the  inner  form  most  bright  and 
fair  — 
And  then  she  had  a  charm  of  strange 
device, 
Which,  murmured  on  mute  lips  with  ten- 
der tone, 
Could  make  that  spirit  mingle  with  her 
own. 

LXVII. 

Alas  !  Aurora,  what   wouldst  thou  have 
given 
For  such  a  charm  when  Tithon  became 
gray? 

Or  how  much,  Venus,  of  thy  silver  Heav- 
en 
Wouldst  thou  have  yielded,  ere  Proser- 
pina 

Had  half  (oh  !  why  not  all?)  the  debt  for- 
given 
Which  dear  Adonis  had  been  doomed 
to  pay, 

To  any   witch  who    would   have    taught 
you  it? 

The  Heliad  doth  not  know  its  value  yet. 


'Tis  said  in  after  times  her  spirit  free 
Knew  what   love   was,    and  felt  itself 
alone  — 

But  holy  Dian  could  not  chaster  be 
Before  she  stooped  to  kiss  Endymion, 

Than  now  this  lady —  like  a  sexless  bee 


392 


THE    WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


Tasting  all  blossoms,  and  confined  to 
none, 

Among  those  mortal  forms,  the  Wizard- 
Maiden 

Past  with  an  eye  serene  and  heart  un- 
laden. 


To  those  she  saw  most  beautiful,  she  gave 

Strange  panacea  in  a  crystal  bowl :  — 
They  drank  in  their  deep  sleep  of  that 
sweet  wave, 
And   lived  thenceforward   as   if    some 
control, 
Mightier  than  life,  were   in   them;    and 
the  grave 
Of  such,  when  death  opprest  the  weary 
soul, 
Was  as  a  green  and  overarching  bower 
Lit  by  the  gems  of  many  a  starry  flower. 


For  on  the  night  when  they  were  buried, 
she 
Restored  the  embalmers'  ruining,  and 
shook 
The  light  out  of  the  funeral  lamps,  to  be 
A  mimic  day  within  that  deathy  nook ; 
And  she  unwound  the  woven  imagery 
Of     second      childhood's    swaddling  - 
bands,  and  took 
The  coffin,  its  last  cradle,  from  its  niche, 
And  threw  it  with  contempt  into  a  ditch. 

LXXI. 

And  there  the  body  lay,  age  after  age, 
Mute,   breathing,    beating,  warm,   and 
undecaying, 
Like  one  asleep  in  a  green  hermitage, 
With   gentle   smiles   about    its   eyelids 
playing, 
And  living  in  its  dreams  beyond  the  rage 
Of  death  or  life;    while  they  were  still 
arraying 
In  liveries  ever  new,  the  rapid,  blind 
And  fleeting  generations  of   mankind. 


And  she  would  write  strange  dreams  upon 
the  brain 
Of  those  who  were  less  beautiful,  and 
make 


All  harsh  and  crooked  purposes  more  vain 
Than  in  the  desert  is  the  serpent's  wake 
Which  the  sand  covers;  —  all  his  evil  gain 
The  miser  in   such  dreams  would  rise 
and  shake 
Into  a  beggar's  lap; —  the  lying  scribe 
Would    his    own    lies    betray    without   a 
bribe. 


The   priests  would  write  an  explanation 
full, 
Translating  hieroglyphics  into  Greek, 
How  the  god  Apis  really  was  a  bull, 
And  nothing  more;  and  bid  the  herald 
stick 
The  same  against  the  temple   doors,  and 
pull 
The  old  cant  down;  they  licensed  all 
to  speak 
W'hate'er   they   thought   of    hawks,    and 

cats,  and  geese, 
By  pastoral  letters  to  each  diocese. 

LXXIV. 

The  king  would  dress  an  ape   up  in  his 
crown 
And  robes,  and  seat  him  on  his  glori- 
ous seat, 

And  on   the   right  hand    of  the    sunlike 
throne 
Would  place  a  gaudy  mock-bird  to  re- 
peat 

The  chatterings  of  the  monkey.  —  Every 
one 
Of  the  prone  courtiers  crawled  to  kiss 
the  feet 

Of  their  great  Emperor,  when  the  morn- 
ing came, 

And    kist — alas,    how    many    kiss    the 
same  ! 

LXXV. 

The    soldiers    dreamed    that    they    were 
blacksmiths,  and 
Walkt    out     of    quarters     in    somnam- 
bulism ; 
Round  the  red  anvils  you  might  see  them 
stand 
Like    Cyclopses     in    Vulcan's    sooty 
abysm, 


NOTE    OX    THE    WITCH    OF  ATLAS. 


393 


Beating  their  swords  to  ploughshares;  — 

in  a  hand 
The  gaolers  sent   those   of  the   liberal 

schism 
Free    through    the  streets  of    Memphis, 

much,  I  wis 
To  the  annoyance  of  king  Amasis. 


And  timid  lovers  who  had  been  so  coy, 
They  hardly  knew  whether  they  loved 

or  not, 
Would  rise   out   of  their   rest,   and    take 

sweet  joy, 
To    the     fulfilment    of    their    inmost 

thought; 
And  when  next  day  the  maiden  and  the 

boy 
Met   one  another,   both,    like    sinners 

caught, 
Blusht  at  the  thing  which  each  believed 

was  done 
Only    in    fancy  —  till    the    tenth    moon 

shone; 

LXXVII. 

And  then  the  Witch  would  let  them  take 
no  ill : 
Of  many  thousand  schemes  which  lov- 
ers find, 
The  Witch    found    one,  —  and    so   they 
took  their  fill 
Of    happiness   in   marriage   warm   and 
kind. 
Friends  who,  by  practice  of  some  envious 
skill, 
Were  torn  apart,  a  wide  wound,  mind 
from  mind  ! 
She  did  unite  again  with  visions  clear 
Of  deep  affection  and  of  truth  sincere. 


These  were  the  pranks  she  played  among    \ 
the  cities 
Of  mortal   men,  and  what  she   did   to 
sprites 
And  gods,  entangling  them  in  her  sweet 
ditties 
To  do  her  will,  and  show  their  subtle   j 
slights, 
I  will  declare  another  time;  for  it  is 


A  tale  more  fit  for  the  weird   winter 

nights, 
Than  for  these  garish  summer  days,  when 

we 
Scarcely  believe  much  more  than  we  can 

see. 


NOTE   ON   THE    "WITCH    OF 
ATLAS/'    B Y    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

We  spent  the  summer  of  1820  at  the 
Baths  of  San  Giuliano,  four  miles  from 
Pisa.  These  baths  were  of  great  use  to 
Shelley  in  soothing  his  nervous  irritabilitv. 
We  made  several  excursions  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  country  around  is  fertile, 
and  diversified  and  rendered  picturesque 
by  ranges  of  near  hills  and  more  distant 
mountains.  The  peasantry  are  a  hand- 
some, intelligent  race;  and  there  was  a 
gladsome  sunny  heaven  spread  over  us, 
that  rendered  home  and  every  scene  we 
visited  cheerful  and  bright.  During  some 
of  the  hottest  days  of  August,  Shelley 
made  a  solitary  journey  on  foot  to  the 
summit  of  Monte  San  Pellegrino  —  a 
mountain  of  some  height,  on  the  top  of 
which  there  is  a  chapel,  the  object,  dur- 
ing certain  days  of  the  year,  of  many 
pilgrimages.  The  excursion  delighted 
him  while  it  lasted;  though  he  exerted 
himself  too  much,  and  the  effect  was 
considerable  lassitude  and  weakness  on 
his  return.  During  the  expedition  he 
conceived  the  idea,  and  wrote,  in  the 
three  days  immediately  succeeding  to  his 
return,  the  "  Witch  of  Atlas."  This  poem 
is  peculiarly  characteristic  of  his  tastes 
—  wildly  fanciful,  full  of  brilliant  im- 
agery, and  discarding  human  interest  and 
passion,  to  revel  in  the  fantastic  ideas 
that  his  imagination  suggested. 

The  surpassing  excellence  of  "The 
Cenci  "  had  made  me  greatly  desire  that 
Shelley  should  increase  his  popularity  by 
adopting  subjects  that  would  more  suit 
the  popular  taste  than  a  poem  conceived 
in  the  abstract  ;\n<\  dreamy  spirit  of  the 
"  Witch  of  Atlas."  It  was  not  only  that  I 
wished  him  to  acquire  popularity  as  re- 
dounding to  his  fame;  but  I  believed 
that  he  would   obtain   a  greater   mastery 


394 


CEDIPUS    TYRANNUS;    OR 


over  his  own  powers,  and  greater  happi- 
ness in  his  mind,  if  public  applause 
crowned  his  endeavors.  The  few  stan- 
zas that  precede  the  poem  were  addressed 
to  me  on  my  representing  these  ideas  to 
him.  Even  now  I  believe  that  I  was  in 
the  right.  Shelley  did  not  expect  sym- 
pathy and  approbation  from  the  public; 
but  the  want  of  it  took  away  a  portion 
of  the  ardor  that  ought  to  have  sustained 
him  while  writing.  He  was  thrown  on 
his  own  resources,  and  on  the  inspiration 
of  his  own  soul;  and  wrote  because  his 
mind  overflowed,  without  the  hope  of 
being  appreciated.  I  had  not  the  most 
distant  wish  that  he  should  truckle  in 
opinion,  or  submit  his  lofty  aspirations 
for  the  human  race  to  the  low  ambition 
and  pride  of  the  many;  but  I  felt  sure 
that,  if  his  poems  were  more  addressed 
to  the  common  feelings  of  men,  his  proper 
rank  among  the  writers  of  the  day  would 
be  acknowledged,  and  that  popularity  as 
a  poet  would  enable  his  countrymen  to 
do  justice  to  his  character  and  virtues, 
which  in  those  days  it  was  the  mode  to 
attack  with  the  most  flagitious  calumnies 
and  insulting  abuse.  That  he  felt  these 
things  deeply  cannot  be  doubted,  though 
he  armed  himself  with  the  consciousness 
of  acting  from  a  lofty  and  heroic  sense  of 
right.  The  truth  burst  from  his  heart 
sometimes  in  solitude,  and  he  would  write 
a  few  unfinished  verses  that  showed  that 
he  felt  the  sting;  among  such  I  find  the 
following:  — 

'  Alas !   this  is  not  what  I  thought  Life  was. 

I  knew  that  there  were  crimes  and  evil  men, 
Misery  and  hate  ;  nor  did  I  hope  to  pass 

Untoucht   by    suffering    through    the    rugged 
glen. 
In  mine  own  heart  I  saw  as  in  a  glass 

The  hearts  of  others.    .    .  .   And,  when 
I  went  among  my  kind,  with  triple  brass 

Of  calm  endurance  my  weak  breast  I  armed, 
To  bear  scorn,  fear,  and  hate  —a  woful  mass  !  " 

I  believed  that  all  this  morbid  feeling 
would  vanish  if  the  chord  of  sympathy 
between  him  and  his  countrymen  were 
touched.  But  my  persuasions  were  vain, 
the  mind  could  not  be  bent  from  its  nat- 
ural inclination.  Shelley  shrunk  instinc- 
tively from  portraying  human  passion, 
with  its  mixture  of  good  and  evil,  of  dis- 


appointment and  disquiet.  Such  opened 
again  the  wounds  of  his  own  heart;  and 
he  loved  to  shelter  himself  rather  in  the 
airiest  flights  of  fancy,  forgetting  love 
and  hate,  and  regret  and  lost  hope,  in 
such  imaginations  as  borrowed  their  hues 
from  sunrise  or  sunset,  from  the  yellow 
moonshine  or  paly  twilight,  from  the  as- 
pect of  the  far  ocean  or  the  shadows  of 
the  woods,  —  which  celebrated  the  sing- 
ing of  the  winds  among  the  pines,  the 
flow  of  a  murmuring  stream,  and  the 
thousand  harmonious  sounds  which  Na- 
ture creates  in  her  solitudes.  These  are 
the  materials  which  form  the  "  Witch  of 
Atlas;"  it  is  a  brilliant  congregation  o\ 
ideas  such  as  his  senses  gathered,  and  his 
fancy  colored,  during  his  rambles  in  the 
sunny  land  he  so  much  loved. 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS; 

OR 

SWELLFOOT  THE   TYRANT, 

A   TRAGEDY 

IN   TWO   ACTS. 

Translated  from  the  Original 
Doric. 

"  Choose  Reform  or  civil  war, 
When  thro'  thy  streets,  instead  of  hare  with  dogs, 
A  Consort-Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with  hogs! 
Riding  on  the  IONIAN  MINOTAUR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

This  Tragedy  is  one  of  a  triad,  01 
system  of  three  Plays  (an  arrangemenl 
according  to  which  the  Greeks  were  ac- 
customed to  connect  their  dramatic  repre- 
sentations), elucidating  the  wonderful 
and  appalling  fortunes  of  the  Swell- 
foot  dynasty.  It  was  evidently  written 
by  some  learned  7'heban,  and,  from  its 
characteristic  dulness,  apparently  before 
the  duties  on  the  importation  of  Atiit 
W/had  been  repealed  by  the  Bceotarchs. 
The    tenderness    with    which    he    treats 


SWELLFOOT   THE    TYRANT. 


39 : 


the  PIGS  proves  him  to  have  been  a 
sus  Bceoticc :  possibly  Epicuri  de  grege 
parens ;  for,  as  the  poet  observes, 

"  A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind." 

No  liberty  has  been  taken  with  the 
translation  of  this  remarkable  piece  of 
antiquity,  except  the  suppressing  a  sedi- 
tious and  blasphemous  Chorus  of  the 
Pigs  and  Bulls  at  the  last  act.  The  word 
Hoydipouse  (or  more  properly  CEdipus), 
has  been  rendered  literally  Swellfoot, 
without  its  having  been  conceived  neces- 
sary to  determine  whether  a  swelling  of 
the  hind  or  the  fore  feet  of  the  Swinish 
Monarch  is  particularly  indicated. 

Should  the  remaining  portions  of  this 
Tragedy  be  found,  entitled,  "  Swellfoot 
in  Angaria,"  and  "  Charite,"  the  Trans- 
lator might  be  tempted  to  give  them  to 
the  reading  Public. 


CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS. 

DRAMATIS   PERSONM. 

Tyrant  Swellfoot,  King  of  Thebes. 
Iona  Taurina,  his  Queen. 
Mammon,  Arch-Priest  of  Famine. 

PURGANAX,    )    Wizard      Ministers  of 

?AKRY'  Swellfoot.' 

Laoctonos,  ) 

The  Gadfly.  I      Moses,  the  Sow-gelder. 
The  Leech.  Solomon,  the  Porkman. 

The  Rat.  |      Zephantah,  Pig  Butcher. 


The  Minotaur. 

Chorus  of  the  Siuinish  Multitude. 

Guards,  Attendants,  Priests,  etc. 

SCENE.— TPIEBES. 

ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  magnificent  Temple, 
built  of  thigh-bones  and  death'1 's  heads, 
and  tiled  with  scalps.  Over  the  Altar 
the  statue  of  Famine,  veiled ' ;  a  num- 
ber of  boars,  sows,  and  sticking  pigs, 
crowned  ivith  thistle,  shamrock,  and 
oak,  sitting  on  the  steps,  and  clinging 
round  the  altar  of  the  Temple. 

1  Purganax,  Lord  Castlereagh,  Dakry,  Lord 
Eldon,  Laoctonos,  Duke  of  Wellington. 


Pinter  Swellfoot,   in  his  Royal  robes ^ 
without  perceiving  the  Pigs. 

Swellfoot.      Thou    supreme    Goddess ! 
by  whose  power  divine 

These    graceful    limbs     are    clothed    in 
proud  array 

[dde    contemplates    himself   with    satis- 
faction. 

Of    gold    and    purple,    and    this    kingly 
paunch 

Swells    like    a    sail    before    a    favoring 
breeze, 

And    these  most  sacred  nether  promon- 
tories 

Lie    satisfied    with    layers    of    fat;    and 
these 

Boeotian  cheeks,  like  Egypt's  pyramid, 

(Nor  with   less   toil  were   their  founda- 
tions laid,*^) 

Sustain  the  cone  of  my  untroubled  brain, 

That  point,   the   emblem   of  a  pointless 
nothing  ! 

Thou    to    whom     Kings    and    laurelled 
Emperors, 

Radical-butchers,  Paper-money-millers, 

Bishops    and    deacons,    and    the    entire 
army 

Of  those  fat  martyrs  to  the  persecution 

Of  stifling  turtle-soup,  and  brandy-devils, 

Offer  their  secret  vows  !     Phou  plenteous 
Ceres 

Of  their  Eleusis,  hail ! 

The  Swine.     Eigh  !  eigh  !  eigh  !  eigh  ! 
Swellfoot.  Ha  !  what  are  ye, 

Who,    crowned  with  leaves    devoted    to 
the  Furies, 

Cling  round  this  sacred  shrine? 
Swine.  Aigh  !  aigh  !  aigh  ! 
Swellfoot.  What !   ye  that  are 

The  very  beasts  that,  offered  at  her  altar 

With   blood  and  groans,   salt-cake,  and 
fat,  and  inwards, 

Ever  propitiate  her  reluctant  will 

When  taxes  are  withheld? 
Swine.      Ugh  !   ugh  !   ugh  ! 
Swellfoot,  What !   ye  who  grub 

With  filthy  snouts  my  red  potatoes  up 

In  Allan's  rushy  bog?    Who  eat  the  oats 

2  See  Universal  History  for  an  account  of  the 
number  of  people  who  died,  and  the  immense 
consumption  of  garlic  by  the  wretched  Egyp- 
tians, who  made  a  sepulchre  for  the  name  as 
well  as  the  bodies  of  their  tyrants. 


396 


(ED  I  PUS    TYR  ANNUS;    OR 


Up,  from  my  cavalry  in  the  Hebrides? 
Who  swill  the  hog-wash  soup  my  cooks 

digest 
From   bones,    and    rags,   and   scraps   of 

shoe-leather, 
Which  should  be   given  to  cleaner  Pigs 

than  you? 

The  Swine.  —  Semichorus  I. 
The  same,  alas!   the  same; 
Though  only  now  the  name 

Of   Pig  remains  to  me. 

Semichorus  II. 
If  't  were  your  kingly  will 
Us  wretched  Swine  to  kill, 

What  should  we  yield  to  thee? 
Swellfoot.      Why,  skin  and  bones,  and 
some  few  hairs  for  mortar. 

Chorus  of  Swine. 
I  have  heard  your  Laureate  sing, 
That  pity  was  a  royal  thing; 
Under  your  mighty  ancestors,  we  Pigs 
Were    blest    as    nightingales    on    myrtle 

sprigs, 
Or  grasshoppers  that   live    on    noonday 

dew, 
And  sung,  old  annals  tell,  as  sweetly  too, 
But  now  our  sties  are  fallen  in,  we  catch 
The  murrain  and  the  mange,  the  scab 
and  itch; 
Sometimes    your  royal    dogs  tear   down 
our  thatch, 
And    then  we    seek  the   shelter  of    a 
ditch; 
Hog-wash  or  grains,  or  rutabaga,  none 
Has   yet    been    ours    since    your    reign 
begun. 

First  Sow. 
My  Pigs,  't  is  in  vain  to  tug. 
Second  Sow. 
I  could  almost  eat  my  litter. 
First  Pig. 
I   suck,  but    no    milk  will   come  from 
the  dug. 

Second  Pig. 
Our  skin  and   our  bones  would   be 
bitter. 

The  Boars. 
We  fight  for  this  rag  of  greasy  rug, 


Though  a  trough  of  wash  would  be 
fitter. 

Semichorus. 
Happier  Swine  were  they  than  we, 
Drowned  in  the  Gadarean  sea  — 
I    wish    that    pity   would    drive  out  the 

devils, 
Which  in   your  royal  bosom  hold   their 

revels, 
And  sink  us   in  the  waves  of   thy  com- 
passion ! 
Alas  !  the  Pigs  are  an  unhappy  nation  ! 
Now   if    your    Majesty  would    have    oui 
bristles 
To  bind  your  mortar  with,  or  fill   our 
colons 
With  rich   blood,  or  make  brawn  out  of 
our  gristles, 
In     policy  —  ask     else      your     royal 
Solons  — 
You  ought  to  give  us  hog-wash  and  clean 

straw, 
And  sties  well  thatcht;    besides  it  is  the 
law  ! 
Swell/oof.     This  is  sedition,  and  rank 
blasphemy  ! 
Ho  !   there,  my  guards  ! 

Enter  a  Guard. 
Guard.  Your  sacred  Majesty. 

Swellfoot.     Call  in  the  Jews,  Solomon 
the  court  porkman, 
Moses    the   sow-gelder,   and    Zephaniah 
The  hog-butcher. 

Guard.     They    are    in    waiting,   Sire. 
Enter  Solomon,  Moses,  and 
Zephaniah. 
Swellfoot.      Out   with    your    knife,   old 

Moses,  and  spay  those  Sows, 
[  The  pigs  run  about   in  consternation. 
That  load  the  earth  with  Pigs;    cut   close 

and  deep, 
Moral  restraint  I  sec  has  no  effect, 
Nor  prostitution,  nor  our  own  example, 
Starvation,       typhus-fever,       war,      nor 

prison  — 
This  was   the    art  which   the   arch-priest 

of   Famine 
Hinted  at  in  his  charge  to  the  Theban 

clergy  — 
Cut  close  and  deep,  good  Moses. 

Moses.  Let  your  Majest) 

Keep  the  boars  quiet,  else  — 


SWELLFOOT   TFIE    TYRANT. 


W 


Swellfoot.  Zephaniah,  cut 

That    fat    Hog's  throat,  the  brute  seems 
overfed; 

Seditious   hunks  !   to  whine   for  want   of 

grains. 
Zephaniah.      Your  sacred  Majesty,  he 

has  the  dropsy;  — 
We  shall  find  pints  of  hydatids  in  's  liver, 
He  has  not  half  an  inch  of  wholesome  fat 
Upon  his  carious  ribs  — 

Swellfoot.  'T  is  all  the  same, 

He  '11  serve  instead  of  riot  money,  when 
Our  murmuring  troops  bivouac  in  Thebes' 

streets; 
And  January  winds,  after  a  day 
Of    butchering,    will    make    them    relish 

carrion. 
Now,  Solomon,  I'll  sell  you  in  a  lump 
The  whole  kit  of  them. 

Solomon.  Why,  your  Majesty, 

I  could  not  give  — 

Swell  foot.  Kill  them  out  of 

the  way, 
That  shall  be  price  enough,  and  let  me 

hear 
Their  everlasting  grunts   and  whines  no 

more  ! 

[Exeunt,  driving  in  the  swine. 

Enter  Mammon,  the  Arch-Priest;    and 

Purganax,   Chief  of  the  Council  of 

Wizards. 

Purganax.     The  future  looks  as  black 

as  death,  a  cloud, 

Dark  as  the   frown  of   Hell,  hangs  over 

it. 
The  troops  grow  mutinous  —  the  revenue 

fails  — 
There  's  something  rotten  in  us —  for  the 

level 
Of  the  State  slopes,  its  very  bases  topple, 
The  boldest  turn  their  backs  upon  them- 
selves ! 
Mammon.     Why  what 's   the   matter, 
my  dear  fellow,  now? 
Do  the  troops  mutiny?  — decimate  some 

regiments: 
Does  money  fail?  —  come  to  my  mint  — 

coin  paper, 
Till  gold  be  at  a  discount,  and  ashamed 
To  show  his  bilious  face,  go  purge  him- 
self, 
In  emulation  of  her  vestal  whiteness. 


Purganax.     Oh,  would  that  this  were 

all  !     The  oracle  !  ! 
Mammon.      Why  it  was   I   who  spoke 

that  oracle, 
Ami    whether    I   was    dead-drunk  or  in- 
spired, 
I  cannot  well  remember;    nor,  in  truth, 
The  oracle  itself ! 

Purganax.      The  words  went  thus:  — 
"  Bceotia,  choose  reform  or  civil  war! 
When   thro'  thy    streets,  instead  of  hare 

with  dogs, 
A  Consort  Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with 

hogs, 
Riding  on  the  Ionian  Minotaur." 

Mammon.       Now    if    the    oracle    had 

ne'er  foretold 
This  sad  alternative,  it  must  arrive, 
Or  not,  and  so  it  must  now  that  it  has, 
And     whether     I    was    urged     by    grace 

divine, 
Or  Lesbian  liquor  to  declare  these  words, 
Which  must,  as  all  words  must,  be  false 

or  true; 
It  matters  not :    for  the  same  power  made 

all, 
Oracle,    wine,    and     me     and    you  —  or 

^lone — 
'T  is   the  same   thing.     If  you   knew  as 

much 
Of  oracles  as  I  do  — 

Purganax.  You  arch-priests 

Believe  in  nothing:    if  you  were  to  dream 
Of  a  particular  number  in  the  Lottery, 
You  would  not  buy  the  ticket? 

Mammon.  Yet  our  tickets 

Are  seldom  blanks.     But  what  steps  have 

you  taken? 
For     prophecies     when     once     they    get 

abroad, 
Like    liars    who    tell    the  truth  to  serve 

their  ends, 
Or  hypocrites  who,  from  assuming  virtue, 
Do  the  same  actions  that  the  virtuous  do, 
Contrive     their     own     fulfilment.       This 

Iona  — 
Well  _you  know  what  the  chaste  Pasi- 

p'hae  did, 
Wife    to    that    most    religious    King    of 

Crete, 
And  still  how  popular  the  tale  is  here; 
And   these   dull  Swine   of    Thebes  boast 

their  descent 


J98 


(ED I  PUS    TYR  ANNUS  ;    OR 


From    the  free    Minotaur.      You    know 

they  still 
Call   themselves   Bulls,  though  thus  de- 
generate, 
And  everything  relating  to  a  Bull 
Is  popular  and  respectable  in  Thebes. 
Their    arms    are    seven    Bulls  in  a  field 

gules, 
They    think    their    strength    consists    in 

eating  beef;  — 
Now  there  were  danger  in  the  precedent 
If  Queen  Iona  — 

Purganax.         I  have  taken  good  care 
That  shall  not  be.       I    struck   the   crust 

o'   the  earth 
With  this  enchanted  rod,  and  Hell  lay 

bare  ! 
And  from  a  cavern  full  of  ugly  shapes, 
I  chose  a  Leech,  a  Gadfly,  and  a  Rat. 
The  gadfly  was  the  same  which  Juno  sent 
To  agitate  Io,1  and  which  Ezekiel2  men- 
tions 
That  the   Lord   whistled   for  out  of  the 

mountains 
Of  utmost  /Ethiopia,  to  torment 
Mesopotamian  Babylon.      The  beast 
Has  a  loud  trumpet  like  the  Scarabee, 
His   crooked   tail   is   barbed   with    many 

stings, 
Each  able  to  make  a  thousand  wounds, 

and  each 
Immedicable;    from  his  convex  eyes 
He     sees    fair    things    in    many    hideous 

shapes, 
And   trumpets    all    his   falsehood   to    the 

world. 
Like  other  beetles  he  is  fed  on  dung  — 
He  has  eleven  feet  with  which  he  crawls, 
Trailing  a  blistering  slime,  and   this   foul 

beast 
Has     trackt     Jona     from     the      Theban 

limits, 
From  isle  to  isle,  from  city  unto  city, 
Urging  her  flight  from  the  far  Chersonese 
To    fabulous    Solyma,    and    the    /Etnean 

Isle, 
Ortygia,  Melite,  and  Calypso's  Rock, 
And   the    swart   tribes   of  Garamant   and 

Fez, 

1  The  Prometheus  Bound  of  /Eschylus. 
1  And    the    Lord    whistled    for   the"  gadfly  out 
of  ^Ethiopia,  and   for  the   bee  of  Egypt,  etc.  — 

EZEKIEI.. 


^Eolia  and  Elysium,  and  thy  shores, 
Parthenope,  which  now,  alas  !   are  free  ! 
And      thro'      the      fortunate      Saturnian 

land, 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  West. 

Mammon.  But  if 

This  Gadfly  should  drive  Iona  hither? 
Purganax \     Gods  !    what   an    if!  but 

there  is  my  gray  Rat  : 
So  thin  with  want,  he  can  crawl   in   and 

out 
Of  any  narrow  chink  and  filthy  hole, 
And   he    shall   creep  into    her   dressing- 
room, 
And  — 

Mammon.       My    dear    friend,    where 

are  your  wits?  as  if 
She    does   not   always    toast   a   piece    of 

cheese 
And  bait  the  trap?  and  rats,  when  lean 

enough 
To  crawl  through  such  chinks  — 

Purganax.  But  my  Leech  — 

a  leech 
Fit  to  suck   blood,  with  lubricous  round 

rings, 
Capaciously  expatiative,  which  make 
His  little  body  like  a  red  balloon, 
As  full  of  blood  as  that  of  hydrogen,     • 
Suckt   from   men's  hearts;    insatiably  he 

sucks 
And    clings    and    pulls  —  a    horse-leech, 

whose  deep  maw 
The  plethoric  King  Swellfoot  could   not 

fill, 
And  who,  till  full,  will  cling  for  ever. 

Mammon.  This 

For  Queen  Iona  might  suffice,  and  less; 
But  't  is  the  swinish  multitude  I  fear, 
And  in  that  fear  I  have  — 

Purganax.  Done  what? 

Mammon .  Disinherited 

My  eldest  son  Chrysaor,  because  he 
Attended  public  meetings,  and  would  al- 

ways 
Stand  prating  there  of  commerce,  public 

faith, 
Economy,  and  unadulterate  coin 
And  other  topics,  ultra-radical; 
And  have  entailed   my  estate,  called  the 

Fool's  Paradise, 
And   funds   in    fairy-money,    bonds,    and 

bills, 


SW£LLi<UU  1     THE    TYRANT. 


399 


Upon  my  accomplished  daughter  Bank- 

notina, 
And  married  her  to  the  Gallows.1 

Purganax.  A  good  match  ! 

Mammon.     A   high    connection,    Pur- 
ganax.    The  bridegroom 
Is  of  a  very  ancient  family, 
Of    Hounslow   Heath,   Tyburn,   and  the 

New  Drop, 
And  has  great  influence  in  both  Houses; 

—  oh  ! 
He  makes  the  fondest  husband;    nay,  too 

fond,  — 
New  married  people  should  not   kiss   in 

public; 
But  the  poor  souls  love  one  another  so  ! 
And    then    my    little    grandchildren,  the 

Gibbets, 
Promising  children  as  you  ever  saw,  — 
The  young   playing  at  hanging,  the  elder 

learning 
How  to    hold    radicals.     They    are    well 

taught  too, 
For  every  Gibbet  says  its  catechism 
And  reads  a  select  chapter  in  the  Bible 
Before  it  goes  to  play. 
[A  most  tremendous  humming  is  heard. 
Purganax.        Ha!   what  do  I  hear? 

Enter  the  Gadfly. 

Mammon.     Your  Gadfly,  as  it  seems' 
is  tired  of  gadding. 

Gadfly .  Hum  !   hum  !   hum  ! 

From    the    lakes    of  the    Alps,    and    the 
cold  gray  scalps 
Of  the  mountains,  I  come, 
Hum  !   hum  !   hum  ! 
From    Morocco   and    Fez,  and    the    high 
palaces 
Of  golden  Byzantium; 
From  the  temples  divine  of  old  Palestine, 
From  Athens  and  Rome, 
With  a  ha  !   and  a  hum  ! 
I  come  !   I  come  ! 
All  inn-doors  and  windows 

Were  open  to  me; 
I  saw  all  that  sin  does 
Which  lamps  hardly  see 

1  "  If  one  should   marry   a  gallows,  and   beget 
young  gibbets,  I  never  saw  one  so  prone." 

Cymbelink. 


That  burn  in  the  night   by   the   curtained 

bed,— 
The    impudent    lamps !    for   they    blusht 
not  red, 
Dinging  and  singing, 
From  slumber  I  rung  her, 
Loud    as     the     clank     of     an     iron- 
monger; 

Hum  !  hum  !  hum  ! 

Far,  far,  far  ! 
With  the  trump  of  my  lips,  and  the  sting 
at  my  hips, 
I  drove  her  —  afar ! 
Far,  far,  far  ! 
From  city  to  city,  abandoned  of  pity, 
A  ship  without  needle  or  star;  — 
Homeless  she  past,  like  a  cloud  on  the 
blast, 
Seeking  peace,  finding  war;  — 
She  is  here  in  her  car, 
From  afar,  and  afar;  — 
Hum  !   hum  ! 

I  have  stung  her  and  wrung  her, 

The  venom  is  working;  — 
And  if  you  had  hung  her 
With  canting  and  quirking, 
She  could  not  be  deader  than  she  will  be 

soon;- — 
I   have   driven  her    close   to  you,   under 
the  moon, 
Night  and  day,  hum  !  hum  !  ha  ! 
I  have  hummed  her  and  drummed  her 
From  place  to  place,  till  at  last    I   have 
dumbed  her, 

Hum  !   hum  !   hum  ! 

Enter  the  Leech  and  the  Rat. 
Leech.  I  will  suck 

Blood  or  muck  ! 
The   disease  of    the   state   is  a   ple- 

thory, 
Who  so  fit  to  reduce  it  as  I? 

Rat.         I'll  slyly  seize  and 

Let  blood  from  her  weasand,  — 
Creeping   thro'    crevice,    and   chink,  and 

cranny, 
With   my   snakey  tail,   and  my  sides  so 

scranny. 

Purganax. 

Aroint  ye  !  thou  unprofitable  worm  ! 


400 


CEDITUS    TYR ANNUS;    OR 


[  To  the  Leech. 

And  thou,  dull  beetle,  get  thee  back  to 

hell !  I  To  the  Gadfly. 

To  sting  the  ghosts  of  Babylonian  kings, 

And  the  ox-headed  Io.  — 

Swine  {within). 
Ugh,  ugh,  ugh  ! 
Hail !    Iona  the  divine, 
We  will  be  no  longer  swine, 
But  Bulls  with  horns  and  dewlaps. 
Rat. 

For, 
You  know,  my  lord,  the  Minotaur  — 
Purganax  (  fiercely). 
Be  silent !   get  to  hell  !   or  I  will  call 
The  cat  out  of  the  kitchen.      Well,  Lord 

Mammon, 
This  is  a  pretty  business. 

[  Exit  the  Rat. 
Mammon. 

I  will  go 
And  spell  some  scheme  to   make   it  ugly 
then.  —  [Exit. 

Enter  Swellfoot. 
Swellfoot.     She   is  returned !    Taurina 
is  in  Thebes 
When  Swellfoot  wishes  that  she  were  in 
hell ! 

0  Hymen,  clothed  in  yellow  jealousy, 
And  waving   o'er    the    couch   of  wedded 

kings 
The  torch  of  Discord  with  its  fiery  hair; 
This   is   thy  work,    thou   patron  saint   of 

queens ! 
Swellfoot   is  wived  !    tho'   parted  by  the 

sea, 
The    very    name    of    wife    had    conjugal 

rights; 
Her  cursed   image  ate,  drank,  slept  with 

me, 
And  in  tile  arms  of  Adiposa  oft 
Her  memory  has  received  a  husband's — 
[A    loud  tumult,  and  cries   of  "  Iona 

for  ever  !  —  No  Swellfoot  !  " 
Swellfoot.  Hark! 

How  the  swine  cry  Tona  Taurina; 

1  suffer  the  real  presence;    Purganax, 
Off  with  her  head  ! 

Purganax.  But  I  must  first 

impanel 
A  jury  of  the  Pigs. 


Swellfoot.  Pack  them  then. 

Purganax.     Or  fattening  some  few  in 

two  separate  sties, 
And  giving  them  clean  straw,  tying  some 

bits 
Of  ribbon  round  their  legs  —  giving  their 

Sows 
Some    tawdry    lace,    and    bits    of    lustre 

glass, 
And    their    young   Boars  white    and    red 

rags,  and  tails 
Of    cows,  and    jay  feathers,  and   sticking 

cauliflowers 
Between   the  ears  of    the   old   ones;    and 

when 
They  are  persuaded,  that  by  the  inherent 

virtue 
Of  these  things,  they  are  all  imperial  Pigs, 
Good    Lord  !     they  'd    rip    each    other's 

bellies  up, 
Not  to  say  help  us  in  destroying  her. 
Swellfoot.      'Phis   plan    might   be   tried 

too;  —  where  's  General 
Laoctonos? 

Enter  Laoctonos  and  Dakry. 

It  is  my  royal  pleasure 
That  you,  Lord  General,  bring   the  head 

and  body, 
If    separate    it   would   please   me    better, 

hither 
Of  Queen  Iona. 

Laoctonos.  That  pleasure  I  well 

knew, 
And  made  a  charge  with  those  battalions 

bold, 
Called,    from    their   dress   and    grin,    the 

royal  Apes, 
Upon  the  Swine,  who,  in  a  hollow  square 
Enclosed  her,  and  received  the   first   at- 
tack 
Like  so  many  Rhinoceroses,  and  then 
Retreating  in  good  order,  with  bare  tusks 
And  wrinkled  snouts  presented  to  the  foe, 
Bore  her  in  triumph  to  the  public  sty. 
What  is  still  worse,  some  Sows  upon  the 

ground 
Have  given  the  Ape-guards  apples,  nuts, 

and  gin, 
And  they  all  whisk   their   tails  aloft,  and 

cry, 
"Long     live    Iona!     down    with    Swell- 
foot!  " 
/'urea na.x  .  I  lark  ! 


SWELLFOOT   THE    TYRANT. 


401 


The  Swine  (without).  Long  live 

Iona  !   down  with  Swellfoot ! 
Dakry.  I 

Went  to  the  garret  of  the  Swineherd's 

tower, 
Which   overlooks   the   sty,    and   made    a 

long 
Harangue  (all  words)  to  the  assembled 

Swine, 
Of  delicacy,  mercy,  judgment,  law, 
Morals,  and  precedents,  and  purity, 
Adultery,  destitution,  and  divorce, 
Piety,  faith,  and  state  necessity, 
And  how  I  loved  the  Queen  ! —  and  then 

I  wept 
With  the  pathos  of  my  own  eloquence, 
And   every  tear   turned   to   a   mill-stone, 

which 
Brained   many   a   gaping  Pig,  and    there 

was  made 
A  slough  of  blood   and   brains  upon   the 

place, 
Greased  with  the  pounded  bacon;  round 

and  round 
The    mill-stones    rolled,    ploughing    the 

pavement   up, 
And  hurling  sucking  Pigs  into  the  air, 
With  dust  and  stones.  — 

Enter  Mammon. 
Mammon.  I  wonder  that 

gray  wizards 
Like  you  should  be  so  beardless  in  their 

schemes; 
It  had  been  but  a  point  of  policy 
To  keep  Iona  and  the  Swine  apart. 
Divide    and  rule!   but   ye   have    made    a 

junction 
between    two    parties    who    will    govern 

you 
But  for  my  art.  —  Behold  this   BAG  !   it 

is 
The   poison   BAG   of  that   Green  Spider 

huge, 
On  which   our   spies   skulked   in    ovation 

thro' 
The   streets   of  Thebes,  when   they  were 

paved  with  dead  : 
A    bane    so    much    the    deadlier    fills    it 

now, 
As   calumny  is  worse   than   death,  —  for 

here 
The  Gadfly's  venom,  fifty  times  distilled, 
Is  mingled  with  the  vomit  of  the  Leech, 


In   due   proportion,  and  black   ratsbane, 

which 
That  very  Rat,  who,  like  the  Pontic  tyrant, 
Nurtures    himself    on    poison,    dare    not 

touch;  — 
All   is  sealed   up  with  the  broad  seal  of 

Fraud, 
Who  is  the  Devil's  Lord  High  Chancellor, 
And  over  it  the  Primate  of  all  Hell 
Murmured    this    pious    baptism:- — "Be 

thou  called 
The  GREEN  BAG;    and  this  power  and 

grace  be  thine : 
That      thy     contents,     on     whomsoever 

poured, 
Turn    innocence    to   guilt,    and    gentlest 

looks 
To  savage,  foul,  and  fierce  deformity. 
Let  all  baptized  by  thy  infernal  dew 
Be     called      adulterer,     drunkard,     liar, 

wretch  ! 
No  name  left  out  which  orthodoxy  loves, 
Court  Journal  or  legitimate  Review  !  — 
Be  they   called  tyrant,  beast,  fool,  glut- 
ton, lover 
Of   other  wives  and   husbands   than  their 

own  — 
The  heaviest  sin  on  this  side  of  the  Alps  ! 
Wither  they  to  a  ghastly  caricature 
Of   what  was   human!  —  let   not  man  or 

beast 
Behold  their  face  with  unaverted  eyes! 
Or  hear  their  names  with  ears  that  tingle 

not 
With   blood    of    indignation,    rage,    and 

shame  !  "  — 
This    is    a    perilous    liquor;  — good    my 

Lords.  — 

[Swkllfoot   approaches  to   touch  the 
GREEN  BAG. 

Beware!    for    God's   sake,    beware! — if 
you  should  break 

The  seal,  and  touch  the  fatal  liquor  — 
Purgctnax.  There, 

Give   it    to   me.      I    have    been    used    to 
handle 

All  sorts  of  poisons.      His  dread  Majesty 

Only  desires  to  see  the  color  of   it. 

Mammon.      Now,  with    a    little    com- 
mon sense,  my  Lords, 

Only  undoing  all  that  has  been  done 


402 


(EDIPUS    TYR ANNUS;    OR 


(Yet  so  as  it  may  seem  we  but  confirm 

Our  victory  is  assured.      We  must  entice 

Her   Majesty   from  the  stye,   and  make 
the  Pigs 

Believe  that  the  contents  of  the  GREEN 
BAG 

Are  the  true  test  of  guilt  or  innocence. 

And  that,  if  she  be  guilty,  't  will  trans- 
form her 

To  manifest  deformity  like  guilt. 

If  innocent,  she  will  become  transfigured 

[nto  an  angel,  such  as  they  say  she  is; 

And  they  will  see  her  flying  through  the 
air, 

So  bright  that  she  will  dim  the  noonday 
sun; 

Showering  down  blessings  in  the  shape 
of  comfits. 

This,  trust   a  priest,  is    just   the   sort  of 
thing 

Swine  will  believe.     I  '11  wager  you  will 
see  them 

Climbing  upon   the   thatch  of  their  low 
sties, 

With  pieces  of  smoked  glass,  to  watch 
her  sail 

Among  the   clouds,  and  some  will  hold 
the  flaps 

Of     one    another's     ears    between    their 
teeth, 

To  catch  the  coming  hail  of   comfits  in. 

You,  Purganax,  who  have  the  gift  o'  the 
krab, 

Make   them  a  solemn   speech   to  this  ef- 
fect: 

I  go  to  put  in  readiness  the  feast 

Kept  to  the   honor  of  our  goddess   Fam- 
ine, 

Where,    for    more    glory,    let    the    cere- 
mony 

Take    place    of    the    uglification    of    the 
Queen. 
Dakry  ( to  Swellfoot) .      I ,  as  the  keeper 
of  your  sacred  conscience, 

Humbly   remind   your    Majesty  that    the 
care 

Of  your  high  office,  as  man-milliner 

To  red  Bcllona,   should  not  be  deferred. 

Purganax.     All  part  in  happier  plight 

to  meet  again.  [Exeunt. 

END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE   I. — The  Public  Sty. 
The  Boars  in  full  Assembly. 

Enter  PURGANAX. 

Purganax.     Grant  me  your  patience, 
Gentlemen  and  Boars, 
Ye,  by  whose  patience  under  public  bur- 
dens 
The  glorious  constitution  of  these  sties 
Subsists,  and  shall  subsist.     The  lean-pig 

rates 
Grow    with    the     growing     populace    of 

Swine, 
The  taxes,  that  true  source  of  piggishness 
(How  can  I  find  a  more  appropriate  term 
To  include   religion,   morals,  peace,   and 

plenty, 
And  all  that  fit  Boeotia  as  a  nation 
To  teach  the  other  nations  how  to  live?) 
Increase  with  piggishness  itself;  and  still 
Does  the  revenue,  that  great  spring  of  all 
The   patronage,    and   pensions,   and  by- 
payments, 
Which  free-born  Pigs  regard  with  jealous 

eyes, 
Diminish,  till  at  length,  by  glorious  steps, 
All  the  land's  produce  will  be  merged  in 

taxes, 
And  the  revenue  will  amount  to  —  noth- 
ing ! 
The  failure  of  a  foreign  market  for 
Sausages,  bristles,  and  blood-puddings, 
And  such  home  manufactures  is  but  par- 
tial; 
And,  that  the  population  of  the  Pigs, 
Instead   of   hog-wash,    has  been    fed   on 

straw 
And    water,    is    a    fact    which    is  —  you 

know  — 
That  is  —  it  is  a  state-necessity  — 
Temporary,    of  course.      Those  impious 

Pigs, 
Who,  by   frequent    squeaks,    have  dared 

impugn 
The  settled  Swellfoot  system,  or  to  make 
Irreverent  mockery  of  the  genuflexions 
Inculcated  by  the  arch-priest,  have  been 
whipt 


SWELLFOOT   THE    TYRANT. 


403 


Into  a  loyal  and  an  orthodox  whine. 

Things   being    in    this  happy   state,   the 
Queen 

Iona  — 

(A  loud  cry  from  //z<?Pigs.)  She  is  in- 
nocent !  most  innocent ! 
Turganax.      That  is    the  very   thing 
that  I  was  saying, 

Gentlemen  Swine;  the  Queen  Iona  being 

Most    innocent,     no    doubt,    returns    to 
Thebes, 

And   the    lean    Sows  and  Boars  collect 
about  her, 

Wishing  to  make  her  think  that  we  be- 
lieve 

(I  mean  those  more  substantial  Pigs,  who 
swill 

Rich  hog-wash,  while  the  others  mouth 
damp  straw) 

That  she   is  guilty;    thus,   the  Lean-Pig 
faction 

Seeks  to  obtain  that  hog-wash,  which  has 
been 

Your   immemorial    right,    and    which    I 
will 

Maintain  you  in  to  the  last  drop  of  — 
A  Boar  {interrupting  Aim).      What 

Does  any  one  accuse  her  of? 

Turganax.  Why,  no  one 

Makes  any  positive  accusation; — but 

There  were  hints  dropt,  and  so  the  privy 
wizards 

Conceived  that  it  became  them  to  advise 

His  Majesty  to  investigate  their  truth;  — 

Not  for  his  own  sake;    he  could  be  con- 
tent 

To    let    his    wife    play    any    pranks   she 
pleased, 

If,  by  that  sufferance,  he  could  please  the 
Pigs; 

But  then  he  fears  the  morals  of  the  Swine, 

The  Sows  especially,  and  what  effect 

It  might  produce  upon  the  purity  and 

Religion  of  the  rising  generation 

Of  sucking  Pigs,  if  it  could  be  suspected 

That  Queen  Iona  —  [A  pause. 

Ftrst  Boar.  Well,  go  on;    we  long 

To   hear    what    she    can    possibly    have 
done. 
Turganax.     Why,  it  is  hinted,  that  a 
certain  Bull  — 

Thus  much  is  kncnun :  —  the  milk-white 
Bulls  that  feed 


Beside  Clitumnus  and  the  crystal  lakes 
Of    the    Cisalpine     mountains,    in    fresh 

dews 
Of  lotus-grass  and  blossoming  asphodel, 
Sleeking  their  silken  hair,  and  with  sweet 

breath 
Loading   the   morning   winds  until   they 

faint 
With  living  fragrance,  are  so  beautiful ! — 
Well,  /say  nothing; — but  Europa  rode 
On  such  a  one  from  Asia  into  Crete, 
And  the  enamoured  sea  grew  calm  beneath 
His  gliding  beauty.     And  Pasiphae, 
Iona's  grandmother, — but   she   is   inno- 
cent ! 
And  that  both  you  and  I,  and  all  assert. 
First  Boar.     Most  innocent ! 
Turganax.  Behold  this 

BAG;   a  Bag  — 
Second  Boar.  Oh!    no    GREEN 

BAGS !  !       Jealousy's     eyes    are 

green, 
Scorpions  are   green,  and  water-snakes, 

and  efts, 
And  verdigris,  and  — 

Turganax.  Honorable  Swine, 

In  piggish  souls  can  prepossessions  reign? 
Allow  me  to  remind  you,  grass  is  green  — 
All    flesh    is    grass;  —  no    bacon    but    is 

flesh  — 
Ye  are  but  bacon.     This  divining  BAG 
(Which    is    not    green,  but    only    bacon 

color) 
Is  filled  with   liquor,  which  if  sprinkled 

o'er 
A  woman  guilty  of  —  we  all  know  what  — 
Makes  her  so  hideous,  till  she  finds  one 

blind 
She  never  can  commit  the  like  again. 
If  innocent,  she  will  turn  into  an  angel, 
And  rain  down  blessings  in  the  shape  of 

comfits 
As  she  flies  up  to  heaven.     Now,  my  pro- 
posal 
Is  to  convert  her  sacred  Majesty 
Into  an  angel  (as  I  am  sure  we  shall  do), 
By    pouring    on    her    head    this    mystic 

water. 

[Shozving  the  Bag. 
I  know  that  she  is  innocent;  I  wish 
Only  to  prove  her  so  to  all  the  world. 
First  Boar.  Excellent,  just,  and 

noble  Purganax. 


404 


(ED  I  PUS   TYR  ANNUS;    OR 


Second  Boar.  How  glorious  it  will 

be  to  see  her  Majesty 
Flying  above  our  heads,  her  petticoats 
Streaming  like  —  like  —  like  — 
Third  Boar.  Any  thing. 

Purganax.  Oh,  no  ! 

But  like  a  standard  of  an  admiral's  ship, 
Or  like  the  banner  of  a  conquering  host, 
Or  like  a  cloud  dyed  in  the  dying  day, 
Unravelled  on  the    blast    from    a  white 

mountain;' 
Or  like  a  meteor,  or  a  war-steed's  mane, 
Or  waterfall  from  a  dizzy  precipice 
Scattered  upon  the  wind. 

First  Boar.  Or  a  cow's  tail. 

Second  Boar.         Or  any  thing,  as  the 

learned  Boar  observed. 
Purganax.     Gentlemen  Boars,  I  move 
a  resolution, 
That  her  most  sacred  Majesty  should  be 
Invited  to  attend  the  feast  of  Famine, 
And  to  receive  upon    her    chaste  white 

body 
Dews  of  Apotheosis  from  this  BAG. 

[A  great  confusion  is  heard  of  the  PlGS 
OUT  OF  Doors,  which  communicates 
itself  to  those  within.  During  the  first 
Strophe,  the  doors  of  the  Stye  are  slaved 
in,  and  a  number  of  exceedingly  lean 
Pigs  ««</Sows  and  Boars  rush  in. 

Semichorus  I. 
No!  Yes! 

Semichorus  II. 
Yes!  No! 

Semichorus  I. 
A  law  ! 

Semichorus  II. 
A  flaw  ! 

Semichorus  I. 
Porkers,  we  shall  lose  our  wash, 

Or  must  share  it  with  the  Lean-Pigs ! 

First  Boar. 
Order !  order !  be  not  rash  ! 

Was  there  ever  such  a  scene,  Pigs  ! 

An  old  Sow  (rushing  in). 
I  never  saw  so  fine  a  dash 

Since  I  first  began  to  wean  Pigs. 

Second  Boar  (solemnly). 
The  Queen  will  be  an  angel  time  enough. 


I  vote,  in  form  of  an  amendment,  that 
Purganax  rub  a  little  of  that  stuff 
Upon  his  face. 

Purganax   (His  heart  is  seen  to  beat 
through  his  waistcoat). 

Gods  !   What  would  ye  be  at? 

Semichorus  I. 
Purganax  has  plainly  shown  a 

Cloven  foot  and  jack-daw  feather. 

Semichorus  II. 
I  vote  Swellfoot  and  Iona 

Try  the  magic  test  together; 
Whenever  royal  spouses  bicker, 
Both  should  try  the  magic  liquor. 

An  old  Boar  (aside). 
A  miserable  state  is  that  of  Pigs, 
For  if    their   drivers  would  tear  caps 
and  wigs, 
The  Swine  must  bite   each    other's    ear 
therefore. 

An  old  Sow  (aside). 
A  wretched  lot  Jove  has  assigned  to 

Swine, 
Squabbling  makes    Pig-herds  hungry, 
and  they  dine 
On    bacon,    and  whip  sucking-Pigs  the 
more. 

Chorus. 
Hog-wash  has  been  ta'en  away: 
If  the  Bull-Queen  is  divested, 
We  shall  be  in  every  way 

Hunted,  stript,  exposed,  molested; 
Let  us  do  whate'er  we  may, 
That  she  shall  not  be  arrested. 
Queen,  we  entrench  you  with  walls  of 
brawn, 
And    palisades   of  tusks,    sharp    as    a 
bayonet : 
Place    your    most    sacred    person    here. 
We  pawn 
Our  lives   that   none   a  finger   dare  to 
lay  on  it. 
Those  who  wrong  you,  wrong  us; 
Those  who  hate  you,  hate  us; 
Those  who  sting  you,  sting  us; 
Those  who  bait  you,  bait  us; 
The  oracle  is  now  about  to  be 
Fulfilled  by  circumvolving  destiny; 
Which    says:    "Thebes,    choose    reform 
or  civil  war. 


SWELLFOOT   THE    TYRANT. 


405 


When  through  your  streets,  instead  of 

hare  with  dogs, 
A  Consort  Queen  shall  hunt  a  King 
with  hogs, 
Riding     upon     the     IONIAN    MINO- 
TAUR."- 
Enter  Iona  Taurina. 
Iona      Taurina     {coming   forward). 
Gentlemen  Swine,  and  gentle  Lady- 
Pigs, 
The  tender  heart  of  every  Boar  acquits 
Their  Queen,  of  any  act  incongruous 
With  native  piggishness,  and  she  reposing 
With  confidence  upon  the  grunting  nation, 
Has  thrown  herself,  her  cause,  her  life, 

her  all, 
Her  innocence,  into  their  hoggish  arms; 
Nor  has  the  expectation  been  deceived 
Of    finding    shelter    there.     Yet    know, 

great  Boars 
(For  such  who    ever    lives    among   you 

finds  you, 
And  so  do  I),  the  innocent  are  proud! 
I  have  accepted  your  protection  only 
In  compliment  of  your  kind  love  and  care, 
Not  for  necessity.     The  innocent 
Are  safest  there  where  trials  and  dangers 

wait: 
Innocent  Queens  o'er  white-hot  plough- 
shares tread 
Unsinged,    and    ladies,    Erin's    laureate 

sings  it,1 
Deckt  with  rare   gems,  and  beautv  rarer 

still. 
Walkt     from    Killarney    to    the    Giant's 

Causeway, 
Thro'      rebels,      smugglers,      troops      of 

yeomanry, 
White-boys,  and  Orange-boys,  and  con- 
stables, 
Tithe-proctors,  and  excise  people,  unin- 
jured ! 
Thus  I  !  — 

Lord  Purganax,  I  do  commit  myself 
Into  your  custody,  and  am  prepared 
To  stand  the  test,  whatever  it  may  be  ! 
Purganax.  This    magnanimity    in 

your  sacred  Majesty 
Must  please  the  Pigs.     You  cannot  fail 
of  being 

1  "  Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore." 
See  Moore's  "  Irish  Melodies." 


A  heavenly  angel.     Smoke  your  bits  of 

glass, 
Ye  loyal  Swine,  or  her  transfiguration 
Will  blind  your  wondering  eyes. 

An  old  Boar  (aside).  Take  care, 

my  Lord, 
They  do  not  smoke  you  first. 

Purganax.  At  the  approach- 

ing feast 
Of   Famine,  let  the  expiation  be. 
Swine.     Content !   content ! 
Iona  Taurina  {aside).  I,  most 

content  of  all, 
Know  that  my  foes  even   thus  prepare 
their  fall !  [Exeunt  omnes. 


SCENE  II.—  The  interior  of  the  Tem- 
ple of  Famine.  The  statue  of  the 
Goddess,  a  skeleton  clothed  in  party- 
colored  rags,  seated  upon  a  heap  of  skulls 
and  loaves  intermingled.  A  number  op 
exceedingly  fat  Priests  in  black  garments 
arrayed  on  each  side,ivith  marroic-bones 
and  cleavers  in  their  hands.  A  flourish 
of  trumpets. 
Enter  Mammon  as  arch-priest,  Swell- 
foot,  Dakry,  Purganax,  Lao- 
ctonos,  followed  by  Iona  Taurina 
guarded.  On  the  other  side  enter  the 
Swine. 

Chorus  of   Priests,    accompanied  by 
the    Court    Porkman    on     marrow- 
bones and  cleavers. 
Goddess  bare,  and  gaunt,  and  pale, 
Empress  of  the  world,  all  hail! 
What  tho'  Cretans  old  called  thee 
City-crested  Cybele? 
We  call  thee  Famine  ! 
Goddess  of  fasts  and  feasts,  starving  and 

cramming ! 
Thro'    thee,   for    emperors,    kings,    and 

priests  and  lords, 
Who  rule  by  viziers,  sceptres,  banknotes, 
words, 
The  earth    pours    forth    its    plenteous 

fruits, 
Corn,  wool,  linen,  flesh,  and  roots  — 
Those  who  consume  these  fruits  thro'  thee 
grow  fat, 
Those  who   produce   these  fruits  thro 
thee  grow  lean, 


406 


(EDI PUS    TYKANNUS;    OR 


Whatever   change  takes  place,  oh,  stick 
to  that ! 
And  let  things  be   as   they  have  ever 
been; 
At  least  while  we  remain  thy  priests, 
And  proclaim  thy  fasts  and  feasts  ! 
Thro'     thee     the      sacred      Swellfoot 

dynasty 
Is  based  upon  a  rock  amid  that  sea 
Whose  waves  are  Swine  —  so  let  it  ever 
be! 

[Swellfoot,  etc.,  seat  themselves  at  a 
table  magnificently  covered  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  temple.  Attendants  pass 
over  the  stage  with  hog-wash  in  pails. 
A  number  of  Pigs,  exceedingly  lean, 
follow  them  licking  up  the  wash. 

Mammon.     I  fear  your  sacred  Majesty 
has  lost 

The   appetite   which    you  were    used  to 
have. 

Allow  me  now  to  recommend  this  dish  — 

A  simple  kickshaw  by  your  Persian  cook, 

Such    as  is  served -at  the    great    King's 
second  table. 

The  price  and  pains  which  its  ingredients 
cost, 

Might  have  maintained  some  dozen  fami- 
lies 

A  winter  or  two  —  not  more  —  so  plain 
a  dish 

Could  scarcely  disagree. 

Swellfoot.  After  the  trial, 

And  these  fastidious  Pigs  are  gone,  per- 
haps 

I  may  recover  my  lost  appetite,  — 

I  feel  the  gout  flying  about  my  stomach  — 

Give  me  a  glass  of  Maraschino  punch. 
Purganax  (filling  his  glass,  and  stand- 
ing up).     The  glorious  constitu- 
tion of  the  Pigs  ! 
All.     A  toast !  a  toast !  "stand  up  and 

three  times  three  ! 
Dakry.     No    heel-taps  —  darken  day- 
lights !  — 
Laoctonos.  Claret,  somehow, 

Puts  me  in  mind  of  blood,  and  blood  of 
claret ! 
Swellfoot.     Laoctonos  is  fishing  for  a 
compliment, 

But  't  is  his  due.     Yes,  you  have  drunk 
more  wine, 


And  shed  more  blood  than  any  man   in 
Thebes. 

[  To  Purganax. 
For  God's  sake  stop  the  grunting  of  those 
Pigs ! 
Purganax.      We  dare  not,   Sire  't  is 
Famine's  privilege. 

Chorus  of  Swine. 
Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  Famine  ! 
Thy  throne  is  on  blood,  and  thy  robe 
is  of  rags; 
Thou  devil  which  livest  on  damning; 
Saint    of    new    churches,   and  cant, 
and  GREEN  BAGS, 
Till  in  pity  and  terror  thou  risest, 
Confounding  the  schemes  of  the  wisest, 
When  thou  liftest  thy  skeleton  form, 
When  the  loaves  and  the  skulls  rd 
about, 
We  will    greet    thee  —  the  voice  of  a 
storm 
Would  be  lost  in  our  terrible  shout ! 

Then  hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,"  Famine  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Empress  of  Earth  ! 
When  thou  risest,  dividing  possessions; 
When  thou   risest,   uprooting    oppres- 
sions; 
In  the  pride  of  thy  ghastly  mirth. 
Over  palaces,  temples,  and  graves, 
We  will  rush  as  thy  minister-slaves, 
Trampling  behind  in  thy  train, 
Till  all  be  made  level  again  ! 
Mammon.     I  hear  a  crackling  of  the 
giant  bones 
Of  the  dread  image,  and  in  the  black  pits 
Which  once  were  eyes,  I  see  two  livid 

flames. 
These  prodigies  are  oracular,  and  show 
The  presence  of  the  unseen  Deity. 
Mighty   events    are    hastening    to    their 
doom  ! 
Swellfoot.     I   only  hear   the  lean  and 
mutinous  Swine 
Grunting  about  the  temple. 

Dakry.  In  a  crisis 

Of  such  exceeding  delicacy,  I  think 
We  ought  to  put  her  Majesty,  the  Queen, 
Upon  her  trial  without  delay. 

Mammon.  THE  BAG 

Is  here. 

Purganax.  I  have  rehearsed 

the  entire  scene 


SWELLFOOT   TBc\  TYRANT. 


407 


With    an    ox    bladder    and    some    ditch- 
water, 

On  Lady  P.  —  it  cannot  fail.     (Taking 
up  the  bag.)     Your  Majesty 

[  To  SWELLFOOT. 

In  such  a  filthy  business  had  better 
Stand  on  one  side,  lest  it  should  sprinkle 

you, 
A  spot  or  two  on  me  would  do  no  harm, 
Nay,  it  might  hide  the  blood,  which  the 

sad  genius 
Of  the  Green  Isle  has  fixt,  as  by  a  spell, 
Upon  my  brow  —  which  would  stain  all 

its  seas, 
But  which  those  seas  could  never  wash 
away  ! 
Iona  Taurina.    My  Lord,  I  am  ready 
—  nay,  I  am  impatient 
To  undergo  the  test. 

I A  graceful  figure  in  a  semi-transpar- 
ent veil  passes  unnoticed  through  the 
Temple;  the  word  LIBERTY  is  seen 
through  the  veil,  as  if  it  -were  written 
in  fire  upon  its  forehead.  Its  words 
are  almost  drowned  in  the  furious 
grunting  of  the  Pigs,  and  the  business 
of  the  trial.  She  kneels  on  the  steps  of 
the  Altar,  and  speaks  in  tones  at  first 
faint  and  low,  but  which  ever  become 
louder  and  louder. 

Mighty  Empress  !   Death's  white  wife  ! 
Ghastly  mother-in-law  of  life  ! 
By  the  God  who  made  thee  such, 
By  the  magic  of  thy  touch, 
By  the  starving  and  the  cramming, 
Of  fasts  and  feasts  !  by  thy  dread  self, 

O  Famine  ! 
I  charge  thee  !  when  thou  wake  the  mul- 
titude 
Thou  lead   them  not   upon  the  paths  of 

blood. 
The  earth  did  never  mean  her  foison 
For    those    who    crown    life's    cup    with 

poison 
Of     fanatic    rage    and     meaningless    re- 
venge — 
But  for  those  radiant  spirits,  who  are 
still 
The    standard-bearers    in     the     van    of 
Change. 
Be  they  th'  appointed  stewards,  to  fill 
The  lap  of  Pain,  and  Toil,  and  Age  !  — 
Remit,  O  Queen  !  thy  accustomed  rage  ! 


Be   what  thou   art   not !     In  voice   faint 

and  low 
Freedom  calls  Famine, —  her  eternal  foe, 
To   bnef  alliance,   hollow  truce.  —  Rise 
v"i    now  ! 

a  w' 1st  the  Veiled  Figure  has  been  chant- 
ing this  strophe,  Mammon,  Dakry, 
Laoctonos,  and  Swellfoot,  have 
surrounded  Iona  Taurina,  who, 
with  her  hands  folded  on  her  breast, 
and  her  eyes  lifted  to  Heaven^  stands, 
as  with  saint-like  resignation,  to  wait 
the  issue  of  the  business,  in  perfect  con- 
fidence of  her  innocence. 
[PURGANAX,  after  unsealing  the  GREEN 
BAG,  is  gravely  about  to  pour  the 
liquor  upon  her  head,  when  suddenly 
the  whole  expression  of  her  figure  and 
countenance  changes;  she  snatches  it 
from  his  hand  with  a  loud  laugh  <) 
triumph,  and  empties  it  over  Swell- 
FOOT  and  his  whole  Court,  who  are 
instantly  changed  into  a  number  of 
filthy  and  ugly  animals,  and  rush  out 
of  the  Temple.  The  image  0/ Famine 
then  arises  with  a  tremendous  sound, 
the  PlGS  begin  scrambling  for  the 
loaves,  ana  are  tripped  up  by  the 
skulls  ;  all  those  who  eat  the  loaves  are 
turned  into  Bulls,  and  arrange  them- 
selves quietly  behind  the  altar.  The 
image  of  Famine  sinks  through  a 
chasm  in  the  earth,  and  a  MlNOTAUR 
rises. 

Minotaur.     I  am  the  Ionian  Minotaur, 
the  mightiest 
Of   all  Europa's  taurine  progeny  — 
I  am  the  old  traditional  Man-Bull; 
And    from    my    ancestors    having    been 

Ionian, 
I  am  called  Ion,  which,  by  interpretation, 
Is  John;  in  plain  Theban,  that  is  to  say, 
My  name's  John  Bull;  I  am  a  famous 

hunter, 
And  can  leap  any  gate  in  all  Bceotia, 
Even  the  palings  of  the  royal  park, 
Or  double   ditch   about    the    new  enclo- 
sures; 
And  if  your  Majesty  will  deign  to  mount 

me, 
At  least  till  you  have  hunted  down  your 

game, 
I  will  not  throw  you. 


408 


NOTE    ON  QEBIPUS    TYR ANNUS. 


Zona  Taurina.  {During  this  speech 
she  has  been  putting  on  boots  and 
spurs,  and  a  hunting  cap,  buck- 
ishly  cocked  on  one  side,  and 
tucking  up  her  hair,  she  -iests, 
nimbi}'  on  his  back.)  Hoa  !  J*ts  '• 
tallyho  !  tallyho  !  ho  !  ho  !        "  </ 

Come,  let  us    hunt    these    ugly  badg     » 
down, 

These   stinking    foxes,    these    devouring 
otters, 

These    hares,   these  wolves,   these    any- 
thing but  men. 

Hey,  for  a  whipper-in  !  my  loyal  Pigs, 

Now  let  your  noses  be  as  keen  as  beagles, 

Your  steps  as  swift   as  greyhounds,  and 
your  cries 

More  dulcet  and  symphonious  than  the 
bells 

Of  village-towers,  on  sunshine  holiday; 

Wake  all  the  dewy  woods  with  jangling 
music. 

Give  them  no  law  (are  they  not  beasts 
of  blood?) 

But  such  as  they   gave    you.     Tallyho ! 
ho! 

Thro'  forest,  furze,  and  bog,  and  den,  and 
desert, 

Pursue  the  ugly  beasts  !  tallyho  !  ho  ! 
Full  Chorus  of  Iona  and  the  SwiNE. 

Tallyho  !  tallyho  ! 
Thro'  rain,  hail,  and  snow, 
Thro'  brake,  gorse,  and  briar, 
Thro'  fen,  flood,  and  mire, 
We  go  !  we  go  ! 

Tallyho  !  tallyho  ! 
Thro'  pond,  ditch,  and  slough. 
Wind  them,  and  find  them, 
Like  the  Devil  behind  them, 

Tallyho  !  tallyho  ! 
[Exeunt,  in  full  cry;    IoNA   driving 
on     the    Swine,     with     the     empty 
Green  Bag. 

the  END 


NOTE   ON    CEDIPUS   TYRANNUS, 
BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

In  the  brief  journal   I   kept  in   those 
days,  I  find  recorded,  in  August    1820, 


Shelley  "  begins  '  Swellfoot  the  Tyrant,' 
suggested  by  the  pigs  at  the  fair  of  San 
Giuliano. ' '  This  was  the  period  of  Queen 
Caroline's  landing  in  England,  and  the 
struggles  made  by  George  IV.  to  get  rid 
of  her  claims;  which  failing,  Lord  Castle- 
reagh  placed  the  "  Green  Bag'1'1  on  the 
table  of  the  House  of  Commons,  demand- 
ing in  the  King's  name  that  an  inquiry 
should  be  instituted  into  his  wife's  con- 
duct. These  circumstances  were  the 
theme  of  all  conversation  among  the 
English.  We  were  then  at  the  Baths  of 
San  Giuliano.  A  friend  came  to  visit  us 
on  the  day  when  a  fair  was  held  in  the 
square  beneath  our  windows :  Shelley 
read  to  us  his  "  Ode  to  Liberty;  "  and  was 
riotously  accompanied  by  the  grunting  of 
a  quantity  of  pigs  brought  for  sale  to  the 
fair.  He  compared  it  to  the  "  chorus  of 
frogs  "  in  the  satiric  drama  of  Aristopha- 
nes; and,  it  being  an  hour  of  merriment, 
and  one  ludicrous  association  suggesting 
another,  he  imagined  a  political-satirical 
drama  on  the  circumstances  of  the  day, 
to  which  the  pigs  would  serve  as  chorus 
—  and  "Swellfoot"  was  begun.  When 
finished,  it  was  transmitted  to  England, 
printed,  and  published  anonymously; 
but  stifled  at  the  very  dawn  of  its  exist- 
ence by  the  Society  for  the  Suppression 
of  Vice,  who  threatened  to  prosecute  it, 
if  not  immediately  withdrawn.  The 
friend  who  had  taken  the  trouble  of  bring- 
ing it  out,  of  course,  did  not  think  it 
worth  the  annoyance  and  expense  of  a 
contest,  and  it  was  laid  aside. 

Hesitation  of  whether  it  would  do 
honor  to  Shelley  prevented  my  publish- 
ing it  at  first.  But  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  keep  back  anything  he  ever  wrote;  for 
each  word  is  fraught  with  the  peculiar 
views  and  sentiments  which  he  believed 
to  be  beneficial  to  the  human  race,  and 
the  bright  light  of  poetry  irradiates  every 
thought.  The  world  has  a  right  to  the 
entire  compositions  of  such  a  man;  for  it 
does  not  live  and  thrive  by  the  outworn 
lesson  of  the  dullard  or  the  hypocrite, 
but  by  the  original  free  thoughts  of  men 
of  genius,  who  aspire  to  pluck  bright 
truth 


EPTPS  YCHTDTON. 


409 


"  from  the  pale-faced  moon  ; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep 
Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  " 

truth.  Even  those  who  may  dissent 
from  his  opinions  will  consider  that  he 
was  a  man  of  genius,  and  that  the  world 
will  take  more  interest  in  his  slightest 
word  than  from  the  waters  of  Lethe 
which  are  so  eagerly  prescribed  as  medi- 
cinal for  all  its  wrongs  and  woes.  This 
drama,  however,  must  not  be  judged  for 
more  than  was  meant.  It  is  a  mere  play- 
thing of  the  imagination;  which  even 
may  not  excite  smiles  among  many,  who 
will  not  see  wit  in  those  combinations  of 
thought  which  were  full  of  the  ridiculous 
to  the  author.  But,  like  everything  he 
wrote,  it  breathes  that  deep  sympathy 
for  the  sorrows  of  humanity,  and  indig- 
nation against  its  oppressors,  which  make 
it  worthy  of  his  name. 


EPIFSYCHIDION. 


VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  NOBLE 
AND  UNFORTUNATE  LADY,  EMILIA 


NOW    IMPRISONED    IN   THE   CON 
VENT   OF 


L'anima  amante  si  slancia  fuori  del  creato,  e 
si  crea    nel   innnito    un    Mondo    tutto  per  essa, 
diverso  assai  da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso  baratro. 
Her  own  words. 


My   Song,  I   fear   that   thou  wilt   find 

but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning, 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain: 
Whence,    if     by    misadventure,     chance 

should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company  (as  chance  may 

do), 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee,  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again, 

My  last  delight !  tell  them  that  they  are 

dull, 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  bea»utiful. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The   Writer   of    the   following    Lines 
died  at  Florence,  as  he  was  preparing  for 
a  voyage   to   one   of  the   wildest   of    the 
Sporades,    which    he    had    bought,    and 
where  he  had  fitted   up   the   ruins  of  an 
old  building,  and  where  it  was  his  hope 
to  have  realized  a  scheme  of   life,  suited 
perhaps  to  that  happier  and  better  world 
of   which   he   is   now   an   inhabitant,  but 
hardly  practicable  in  this.      His  life  was 
singular;  lesson  account  of  the  romantic 
vicissitudes  which  diversified  it,  than  the 
ideal   tinge  which  it  received    from    his 
own  character  and  feelings.     The  present 
J   Poem,  like  the  Vita  Nuova  cf  Dante,  is 
-   sufficiently  intelligible  to   a   certain  class 
of   readers  without   a  matter-of-fact  his- 
tory of  the  circumstances  to  which  it  re- 
lates; and  to  a  certain  other  class  it  must 
ever  remain    incomprehensible,   from    a 
;   defect  of  a  common  organ  of  perception 
I    for  the  ideas  of  which  it  treats.     Not  but 
''   that,  gran  vergogna  sarebbe  a  co/ui,  die 
ri masse  cosa  sotto  veste  di  figura,   o    di 
colore  rettorico :     e  dotnandato    non    sa- 
\  pesse    denudare    le    sue  parole    da    cotal 
■veste,  in  guisa  cJie  avessero  verace  in  ten- 
's  dimento. 

The   present    poem    appears    to    have 
been  intended  by  the  Writer  as  the  dedi- 
cation to  some  longer  one.     The  stanza 
|   on  the  opposite  page  is  almost   a   literal 
translation  from  Dante's  famous  Canzone 

I'd,  ck'  intendendo,  il tcrzo  ciel  viovete,  etc. 

The   presumptuous    application    of    the 

,   concluding  lines  to  his  own  composition 

will  raise  a  smile  at   the   expense   of  my 

!   unfortunate  friend;  be  it  a  smile   not   of 

contempt,  but  pity.  S. 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 

Sweet  Spirit !    Sister  of  that  orphan 

one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  weepest 

on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These      votive     wreaths      of     withered 

memory. 


4io 


EPIPS  Y  CHID  I  ON. 


Poor  captive  bird  !  who,  from  thy 
narrow  cage, 

Pourest  such  music,  that  it  might  assuage 

The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoned 
thee, 

Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody; 

This  song  shall  be  thy  rose :  its  petals 
pale 

Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightin- 
gale ! 

But  soft  and  fragrant  is  the  faded 
blossom, 

And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy 
bosom. 

High,  Spirit-winged  Heart !  who  dost 

forever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  en- 
deavor, 
Till   those  bright  plumes  of  thought,  in 

which  arrayed 
It     over-soared     this     low    and    worldly 

shade, 
Lie  shattered;  and  thy  panting,  wounded 

breast 
Stains    with   dear  blood   its  unmaternal 

nest ! 
I    weep    vain    tears :    blood    would    less 

bitter  be, 
Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit 

thee. 

Seraph   of  Heaven  !  too  gentle  to  be 

human, 
Veiling    beneath    that    radiant    form    of 

Woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality! 
Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  Curse  ! 
Veiled  Glory  of  this  lampless  Universe  ! 
Thou  Moon  beyond  the  clouds  !     Thou 

living  Form 
Among  the  Dead  !     Thou  Star  above  the 

Storm  ! 
Thou    Wonder,    and    thou    Beauty,    and 

thou  Terror  ! 
Thou   Harmony  of  Nature's  art!      Thou 

Minor 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 
All    shapes    look     glorious    which     thou 

gazest  on  ! 
Ay,  even    the   dim  words  which   obscure 

thee  now 


Flash,  lightning-like,  with  unaccustomed 

glow; 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad 

song 
All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong, 
With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like 

sacred  dew 
From    the    twin    lights    thy    sweet    soul 

darkens  thro', 
Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy: 
Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die. 

I   never   thought  before  my  death   to 


Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect.    Emily, 
I  love  thee;    tho'  the' world  by  no  thin 

name 
Will  hide  that   love,   from   its  unvalued 

shame. 
Would  we  two   had  been  twins  of   the 

same  mother  ! 
Or,    that    the    name    my    heart    lent    to 

another 
Could    be    a    sister's  bond    for   her  and 

thee, 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity  ! 
Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true, 
These  names,  tho'  dear,  could  paint  not, 

as  is  due, 
How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.    Ah  me  ! 
'    I  am  not  thine :    I  am  a  part  of  thee. 

Sweet  Lamp  !   my  moth-like  Muse  has 
burnt  its  wings; 
Or,   like    a    dying   swan   who    soars  and 
sings, 
!   Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his 
own  gray  style, 
All  that  thou  art.      Art  thou  not  void  of 

guile, 
A    lovely   soul    formed  to   be   blest  and 

A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness, 
Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music 

are, 
Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom  ?     A 

Star 
Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  Heavens, 

alone? 
!   A    smile    amid    dark    frowns?    a    gentle 

tone 
Amid  rude  voices?  a  beloved  light? 
I  A  Solitude,  o  Refuge,  a  Delight? 


EPIPS  YC HID  ION. 


411 


A   Lute,  which  those   whom    Love    has 

taught  to  play 
Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest 

day 
And    lull    fond    grief    asleep?    a    buried 

treasure? 
A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless 

pleasure; 
A    violet-shrouded    grave    of    Woe  ?  —  I 

measure 
The  world  of  fancies,  seeking   one   like 

thee, 
And  find  —  alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 

She  met  me,  Stranger,  upon  life's 
rough  way, 

And  lured  me  towards  sweet  Death;  as 
Night  by  Day, 

Winter  by  Spring,  or  Sorrow  by  swift 
Hope, 

Led  into  light,  life,  peace.  An  ante- 
lope, 

In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  light- 
ness, 

Were  less  ethereally  light :  the  brightness 

Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  thro' 

Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 

Embodied  in  the  windless  Heaven  of 
June 

Amid  the  splendor-winged  stars,  the 
Moon 

Burns,  inextinguishably  beautiful : 

And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth 
full 

Of  honey-dew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops, 

Killing  the  sense  with  passion;  sweet  as 
stops 

Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 

In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits 
dance, 

The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever 
leap 

Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul  —  too 
deep 

For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or 
sense. 

The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence, 

Stains  the  dead,  blank,  cold  air  with  a 
warm  shade 

Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 

By  Love,  of  light  and  motion:  one  in- 
tense 

Diffusion,  one  serene  Omnipresence, 


Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  iri  their 
flowing 

Around  her  cheeks  and  utmost  fingers 
glowing 

With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which 
there 

Quivers  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 

The  crimson  pulse  of  living  morning 
quiver), 

Continuously  prolonged,  and  ending 
never, 

Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty 
furled 

Which  penetrates  and  clasps  and  fills  the 
world ; 

Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 

Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her 
light  dress 

And  her  loose  hair;  and  where  some 
heavy  tress 

The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 

The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint 
wind; 

And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odor  is  felt, 

Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that  melt 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud.  — 

See  where  she  stands  !  a  mortal  shape  in- 
dued 

With  love  and  life  and  light  and  deity, 

And  motion  which  may  change  but  can 
not  die; 

An  image  of  some  bright  Eternity; 

A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream ;  a  Splen- 
dor 

Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless;  a  ten- 
der 

Reflection  of  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love 

Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows 
move ; 

A  Metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and 
Morning; 

A  Vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning, 

With  smiles  and  tears,  Frost  the  Anatomy 

Into  his  summer  grave. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
What  have  I  dared?  where   am  I  lifted? 

how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not?     I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal :  I  have 

heard 
By    mine    own    heart    this    joyous    truth 

averred : 


412 


EPIPS  YCHIDION. 


The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod 
In  love   and  worship  blends  itself  with 
God. 

Spouse  !    Sister  !  Angel !    Pilot  of  the 

Fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless  !     Oh, 

too  late 
Beloved  !   Oh,  too  soon  adored,  by  me  ! 
For  in  the  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit    should  at  first  have  worshipt 

thine, 
A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this 

earth, 
A    shadow    of    that    substance,  from   its 

birth : 
But   not  as  now: — I   love    thee;    yes,  I 

feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee,  since  in  those  tears  thou  hast 

delight. 
We  —  are  we  not  formed,  as  notes  of  mu- 
sic are, 
For  one  another,  tho'   dissimilar; 
Such  difference  without  discord,  as  can 

make 
Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  all  spirits 

shake 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air? 

Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me,  and  bids  me 

dare 
Beacon  the   rocks  on  which  high  hearts 

are  wreckt. 
I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect, 
Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each   one  should 

select 
Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 
And    all    the    rest,    tho'    fair    and    wise, 

commend 
To  cold  oblivion,  tho'  it  is  in  the  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  foot- 
step tread, 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and 

so 
With  one  chained  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous 

foe, 
The    dreariest   and    the  longest   journey 

go- 


True  Love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and 

clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love   is   like  understanding,  that  grows 

bright, 
Gazing   on   many    truths;     't  is    like  thy 

light, 
Imagination  !  which  from  earth  and  sky, 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  fantasy, 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors, 

fills 
The  Universe  with  glorious  beams,   and 

kills 
Error,  the  worm,    with  many   a   sunlike 

arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Narrow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  con- 
templates, 
The  life  that  wears,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One    object,    and    one    form,    and    builds 

thereby 
A  sepulchre  for  its  eternity. 

Mind   from  its   object   differs   most  in 

this: 
Evil  from  good:   misery  from  happiness; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler;  the  impure 
And    frail,  from  what  is   dear  and  must 

endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  dross,  you  may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away; 
If    you    divide    pleasure    and    love    and 

thought, 
Each  part   exceeds  the  whole;    and  we 

know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  un- 
shared, 
Of    pleasure   may  be  gained,  of  sorrow 

spared : 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages 

draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope;    the  eternal 

law 
By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world 

of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  whose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth. 

There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft, 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's 

dawn, 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn, 


EPIPSYCHIDIOX. 


4*3 


Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the 

caves 
Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 
Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous 

floor 
Paved  her  light  steps;  —  on  an  imagined 

shore, 
Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promontory 
She   met    me,   robed   in  such  exceeding 

glory. 
That  I  beheld  her  not.      In  solitudes 
Her  voice  came  to  me  thro'  the   whis- 
pering woods, 
And  from  the  fountains,  and  the  odors 

deep 
Of  flowers,  which,   like   lips   murmuring 

in  their  sleep 
Of    the    sweet    kisses    which    had  lulled 

them  there, 
Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamoured  air; 
And   from   the   breezes   whether   low    or 

loud, 
And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud, 
And    from    the    singing    of    the   summer 

birds, 
And  from  all  sounds,  all  silence.     In  the 

words 
Of  antique  verse   and   high   romance,  — 

in  form, 
Sound,  color  —  in  whatever  checks  that 

Storm 
Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes 

the  past; 
And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 
Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a 

doom 
As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom; 
Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth.  — 

Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy 

youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  with  plumes  of 

fire, 
And    towards   the    loadstar    of    my    one 

desire, 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leaf's  in  the  owlet  light, 
When  it  would  seek  in  Hesper's  setting 

sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame.  — 
But   She,    whom   prayers   or    tears    then 

could  not  tame, 


Past,  like   a   God   throned   on   a  winged 

planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swift- 
ness fan  it, 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade; 
And    as    a    man   with    mighty   loss    dis- 
mayed, 
I   would  have   followed,   tho'  the  grave 

between 
Yawned  like  a  gulf  whose   spectres   are 

unseen : 
When  a  voice  said : —  "  O  Thou  of  hearts 

the  weakest, 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou 

seekest." 
Then  I — "Where?"  the  world's  echo 

answered  "where  !  " 
And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 
I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that 

flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 
Whither  't  was  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my 

soul; 
And  murmured  names  and   spells   which 

have  control 
Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate; 
But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissi- 
pate 
The    night    which    closed    on    her;     nor 

uncreate 
That  world  within   this  Chaos,  mine  and 

me, 
Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity, 
The  world   I   say  of  thoughts   that  wor- 

shipt  her: 
And  therefore   I  went   forth,  with   hope 

and  fear 
And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 
Feeding    my    course    with    expectation's 

breath, 
Into  the  wintry  forest  of  our  life; 
And   struggling  thro'  its  error  with  vain 

strife, 
And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my 

haste, 
And    half    bewildered  by   new   forms,    I 

past 
Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 
If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers, 
In  which   she  might   have  maskt   herself 

from  me. 
There,  —  One,  whose  voice  was  venomed 

melody 


AH 


EP1PS  YC  HI  DION. 


Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue  nightshade 
bowers; 

The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like 
faint  flowers, 

Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison,  — flame 

Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came, 

And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom 
flew 

A  killing  air,  which  pierced  like  honey- 
dew 

Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 

Upon  its  leaves;  until,  as  hair  grown 
gray 

O'er  a  young  brow,  they  hid  its  unblown 
prime 

With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 

In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of   that  idol  of   my  thought. 
And   some   were    fair — but  beauty   dies 

away : 
Others   were  wise  —  but  honeyed  words 

betray : 
And  One  was  true  —  oh  !  why  not  true  to 

me? 
Then,  as  a  hunted   deer   that   could    not 

flee, 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at 

bay, 
Wounded   and    weak    and    panting;    the 

cold  day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,  like  a  noonday  dawn,  there  shone 

again 
Deliverance.      One    stood    on    my    path 

who  seemed 
As  like  the  glorious  shape  which  I  had 

dreamed, 
As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun; 
The   cold    chaste    Moon,    the    Queen    of 

Heaven's  bright  isles, 
Who  makes   all  beautiful  on   which  she 

smiles, 
That   wandering    shrine   of    soft   yet    icy 

flame 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  still  the 

same, 
Ap.d   warms  not   but  illumines.      Young 

and  fair 
As  the   descended   Spirit  of  that   sphere, 
She  hid  me,  as  the   Moon  may  hide  the 

night 


From    its    own    darkness,    until    all    was 

bright 
Between  the   Heaven  and  Earth  of    my 

calm  mind, 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind, 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place, 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward 

face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like  the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb, 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  Moon's  image  in  a  summer  sea, 
According  as  she   smiled  or  frowned  on 

me; 
And  there   I   lay,  within    a    chaste    cold 

bed: 
Alas,  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead:  — 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death  and 

Life, 
Unmindful    each    of    their     accustomed 

strife, 
Maskt    like  twin   babes,    a   sister  and    a 

brother, 
The  wandering  hopes  of  one  abandoned 

mother, 
And  thro'   the  cavern  without  wings  they 

flew, 
And    cried    "  Away,   he    is    not    of    our 

crew." 
I     wept,    and    tho'    it    be    a    dream,     I 

weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  the   ocean  of 

my  sleep, 
Blotting    that    Moon,    whose     pale     and 

waning  lips 
Then     shrank    as    in     the     sickness    of 

eclipse;  — 
And   how    my   soul    was    as    a   lampless 

sea, 
And   who   was   then    its   Tempest;     and 

when  She, 
The   Planet  of    that  hour,   was  quencht, 

what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to 

coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable;  — 
And   then  —  what    earthquakes    made    it 

gape  and  split, 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all  the  while  on 

it, 


EPIPS  Y CHID ION. 


415 


These    words    conceal: — If     not,    each 

word  would  be 
The  key  of  stanchless  tears.      Weep  not 

for  me  ! 

At    length,    into    the    obscure    Forest 

came 
The  Vision   I  had  sought  thro'  grief  and 

shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flasht    from    her    motion    splendor    like 

the  Morn's, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Thro'  the  gray  earth  and  branches  bare 

and  dead; 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,   and  rooft 

above 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  bud- 
ding love; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light,  —  all  other  sounds  were  pene- 
trated 
By  the   small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that 

sound, 
So    that    the    savage  winds    hung    mute 

around; 
And  odors  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her 

hair 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  frore  air : 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When    light    is    changed   to    love,    this 

glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay, 
And  called  my  Spirit,  and  the  dreaming 

clay  ! 

Was   lifted   by   the  thing   that   dreamed 

below 
As   smoke   by  fire,    and  in  her  beauty's 

glow 
I   stood,  and   felt  the  dawn  of  my  long   j 

night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light: 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years  —  that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin   Spheres  of  light  who  rule   this 

passive  Earth, 
This  world  of  love,   this   me;  and  into 

birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits    and  flowers,  and 

dart 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart; 


And  lift  its  billows  and   its   mists,  and 

guide 
By  everlasting  laws,  each  wind  and  tide 
To  its  fit  cloud,  and  its  appointed  cave; 
And  lull   its  storms,  each  in  the  craggy 

grave 
Which    was    its    cradle,   luring  to    faint 

bowers 
The     armies     of     the     rainbow-winged 

showers ; 
And,     as    those    married    lights,  which 

from  the  towers 
Of    Heaven    look    forth    and    fold    the 

wandering  globe 
In  liquid  sleep  and  splendor,  as  a  robe; 
And    all    their    many-mingled    influence 

blend, 
If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end;  — 
So    ye,    bright    regents,    with     alternate 

sway 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and 

day  ! 
Thou,   not  disdaining   even  a  borrowed 

might ; 
Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light; 
And,    thro'    the  shadow   of  the   seasons 

three, 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 
Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb, 
Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 
Thou  too,  O  Comet  beautiful  and  fierce, 
Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 
Towards  thine  own;  till,  wreckt  in  that 

convulsion, 
Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion, 
Thine  went  astray  and  that  was  rent  in 

twain; 
Oh,  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again  ! 
Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return; 
The   living  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its 

urn 
Of  golden  fire;    the   Moon  will  veil  her 

horn 
In  thy  last  smiles;    adoring    Even   and 

Morn 
Will  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm 

breath 
And  lights  and  shadows;  as  the  star  of 

Death 
And  Birth    is    worshipt  by  those  sisters 

wild 
Called  Hope  and  Fear  —  upon  the  heart 

are  piled 


4i6 


EPIPS  YC HID  ION. 


Their  offerings,  —  of  this  sacrifice  divine 
A  World  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lady  mine, 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the 

fading  birth 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant 

puts  forth 
Whose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny 

eyes, 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  day  is    come,    and   thou  wilt    fly 

with  me. 
To  whatsoe'er  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still; 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperish- 
able, 
Not    mine   but   me,  henceforth  be  thou 

united 
Even    as    a   bride,    delighting    and    de- 
lighted. 
The   hour  is   come: — the  destined  Star 

has  risen 
Which    shall    descend    upon    a    vacant 

prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong, 

thick  set 
The  sentinels  —  but  true  love  never  yet 
Was   thus   constrained:    it  overleaps  all 

fence : 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 
Piercing    its    continents;    like   Heaven's 

free  breath, 
Which    he    who    grasps   can   hold    not; 

liker  Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a   thought,  and  makes 

his  way 
Thro'    temple,   tower,    and   palace,   and 

the  array 
Of  arms:   more  strength  has  Love  than 

he  or  they; 
For  it  can  burst  his  charnel,  and  make 

free 
The     limbs    in    chains,     the     heart    in 

agony, 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbor  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the   mountain's 

brow; 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor, 
No    keel    has   ever    ploughed   that  path 

before; 


The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless 

isles; 
The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its 

wiles; 
The  merry  mariners  are  bold  and  free : 
Say,    my    heart's    sister,    wilt    thou    sail 

with  me? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East; 
And  we  between  her  wings  will  sit,  while 

Night 
And  Day,  and  Storm,  and  Calm,  pursue 

their  flight, 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  Sea, 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of   Paradise, 
And,   for   the  harbors  are   not  safe  and 

good, 
This  land  would  have  remained   a   soli- 
tude 
But    for    some    pastoral    people    native 

there, 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden 

air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, 
Simple  and  spirited,  innocent  and  bold. 
The     blue    ^Egean    girds    this     chosen 

home, 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and 

foam, 
Kissing    the    sifted    sands,    and    caverns 

hoar; 
And  all   the  winds  wandering  along  the 

shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide : 
There    are    thick    woods    where    sylvan 

forms  abide; 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond, 
As  clear  as  elemental  diamond, 
Or  serene  morning  air;  and  far  beyond, 
The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and 

deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd   treads  but 

once  a  year), 
Pierce  into  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers, 

and  halls 
Built  round   with   ivy,  which  the  water- 
falls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet 
airs ; 


EPIPS  YCHIDION. 


417 


The   light   clear  element  which  the  isle 

wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers, 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen 

showers 
And    falls    upon    the    eyelids   like    faint 

sleep; 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils 

peep, 
And    dart  their    arrowy    odor    thro'  the 

brain 
Till  you  might   faint  with   that  delicious 

pain. 
And     every    motion,     odor,    beam,     and 

tone, 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison: 
Which  is  a  soul  within   the  soul  —  they 

seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream.  — 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt   Heaven,  Air,    Earth, 

and  Sea, 
Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden  Lucifer, 
Washt  by  the  soft  blue  Oceans  of  young 

air. 
It  is  a  favored  place.     Famine  or  Blight, 
Pestilence,  War,  and   Earthquake,  never 

light 
Upon  its  mountain-peaks;  blind  vultures, 

they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way : 
The  winged  storms,  chanting  their   thun- 
der-psalm 
To   other  lands,  leave    azure    chasms  of 

calm 
Over    this   isle,   or   weep    themselves    in 

dew, 
From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  re- 
new 
Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the 

sky 
There   fall,   clear    exhalations,   soft    and 

bright, 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight, 
Which  Sun  or  Moon  or  zephyr  draw  aside, 
Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess : 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 
Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 
An  atom  of  the  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 
Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen 


O'er  the  gray  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  for- 
ests green, 
Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices.  — 
But  the  chief  marvel  mi  the  wilderness 
Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how 
I  None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know: 
'Tis  not  a  tower  of  strength,  tho'  with  its 

height 
It  overtops  the  woods;    but,  for  delight, 
Some  wise  and  tender  Ocean-King,  ere 
crime 
,,   Had  been  invented,  in  the  world's  young 
prime, 
Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time, 
!  An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 
;    Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 
!    It  scarce   seems   now  a  wreck  of  human 

art, 
I   But,  as  it  were  Titanic;    in  the  heart 
I  Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then 

grown 
;  Out  of    the  mountains,   from  the  living 
stone, 
Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high  : 
For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 
Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 
The  ivy  and  the  wild-vine  interknit 
The  volumes  of  their  many-twining  stems; 
Parasite  flowers  illume  with  dewy  gems 
The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fade, 

the  sky 
Peeps  through   their  winter-woof  of  tra- 
cery 
With  moonlight    patches,    or  star-atoms 

keen, 
Or   fragments  of    the   day's    intense  se- 
rene;— 
Working  mosaic  on  the  Parian  floors. 
And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high 

towers 
And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 
To    sleep    in    one    another's    arms,    and 

dream 
Of  waves,  flowers,  clouds,  woods,  rocks, 

and  all  that  we 
Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This   isle   and   house    are   mine,  and  I 
have  vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude.  — 
And  I  have  fitted  up  some  chambers  there 
Looking   towards    the    golden     Eastern 
air, 


4i8 


EPIPS  YCHJDION. 


And  level  with   the   living   winds,  which  :   Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss, 

And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 
Be  one: — or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  ar- 
rive 
Where  some  old  cavern  hoar   seems  yet 

to  keep 
The    moonlight    of    the    expired    night 

asleep, 
Thro'  which  the  awakened  day  can  never 

peep; 
A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 
Where  secure  sleep  may  kill  thine  inno- 
cent lights; 
Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the 

rain 
Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  burn 

again. 
And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 
Become  too   sweet  for  utterance,  and  it 

die 
In  words,  to   live  again   in  looks,  which 

dart 
With    thrilling    tone    into    the    voiceless 

heart, 
Harmonizing  silence  without  a  sound. 
Our  breath   shall   intermix,   our  bosoms 

bound, 
And   our  veins  beat   together;    and   our 

lips 
With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 
The  soul  that  burns  between  them,  and 

the  wells 


no 
Like  waves  above   the  living  waves  be- 
low. — 
I  have  sent  books  and   music  there,  and 

all 
Those  instruments  with  which  high  spirits 

call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make   the    present 

last 
In  thoughts  and   joys   which   sleep,  but 

can  not  die, 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not   the    pale    drudge    Luxury,  to 

waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore 

still, 
Nature,  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the 

hill. 
The  ring-dove,  in  the   embowering   ivy, 

yet 
Keeps  up  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls 

flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young 

stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight 

dance; 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moon- 
light 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow,  silent  night 


Is  measured  by  the   pants  of  their  calm  j   Which    boil    under    our    being's    inmost 


sleep. 


cells, 


Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years  \   The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall 

heap 
Their  withered  hours,  like  leaves,  on  our 

decay, 
Let  us  become  the  overhanging  day, 
The  living  soul  of   this  Elysian  isle, 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.    Meanwhile 
We  two  will   r 


be 

Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity, 

As   mountain-springs  under  the  morning 

Sun. 
We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be 

one 


gether, 


tnd   sit,  and  walk   to-  \   Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh  !  wherefore 


two: 


Under  the  roof  of   blue  Ionian  weather,    I   One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows 


And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 


and  grew, 


-»ww      tit  wnv^^i     Ail     lu^      iw^auv^v*  o,     Ul     ci^v^^uvj.  iUHl    riLVV, 

The   mossy  mountains,    where    the   blue  |   Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame, 
heavens  bend 


With  lightest  winds,  to 

mour; 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-pavi 


I  Those   spheres   instinct   wi 
touch  their  para-  J  the  same, 


th   it    become 


I   Touch,    mingle,    are    transfigured;     ever 
still 
Under  the  quick,  faint  kisses  of  the  sea     J   Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable: 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy,  -  -      In     one      another's      substance      finding 
Possessing  and  possest  by  all  that  is  |  food, 


EPIPS  YCHIDIOX. 


419 


Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  un- 

imbued 
To  nourish  their  bright   lives  with  baser 

prey, 
Which  point  to  Heaven  and  can  not  pass   j   Whose  doctrine  is  that  each  one  should 


What  you  are  is  a  thing  that  I  must  veil; 
What  can  this  be  to  those  who  praise  or 

rail? 
I  never  was  attacht  to  that  great  sect 


away : 


select 


One    hope    within    two    wills,    one    will  Out  of  the  world  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 

beneath  And    all    the    rest,    tho'   fair    and    wise, 

Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one  commend 

death,  To    cold    oblivion  —  tho'    't  is    in    the 

One  Heaven,  one  Hell,  one  immortality,  code 

And  one  annihilation.      Woe  is  me  !  Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 

The    winged    words    on   which   my   soul  Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  foot- 


would  pierce 


steps  tread 


Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe,      ,    Who    travel    to  their    home    among   the 


Are   chains  of   lead  around  its  flight  of 

fire  — 
I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire 


dead 
By  the  broad   highway  of    the   world  — 

and  so 
With  one  sad  friend,  and  many  a  jealous 
foe, 
Weak  Verses,  go,  kneel  at  your  Sover-       The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 
eign's  feet, 
And  say: —  "  Wre  are  the  masters  of  thy  Free  love  has  this,  different  from  gold 


slave; 


and  clay, 


What  wouldest  thou  with  us    and    ours      That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away, 


and  thine? 
Then   call   your    sisters   from  Oblivion's 

cave, 
All   singing   loud:  "  Love's  very  pain  is 

sweet. 
But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine 


Like    ocean,    which    the    general    north 

wind  breaks 
Into  ten  thousand  waves,  and   each  one 

makes 
A  mirror  of  the  moon —  like  some  great 

glass, 


Which,  if  not  here,  it  builds  beyond  the   j  Which   did  distort  whatever  form  might 


grave. 


pass, 


So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then   j   Dasht  into  fragments  by  a  playful  child, 


haste 

Over  the  hearts  of  men,  until  ye  meet 
Marina,  Vanna,  Primus,  and  the  rest, 
And  bid   them  love   each   other  and  be 

blest : 
And    leave    the    troop    which    errs,    and 

which  reproves, 
And  come  and  be  my  guest,  —  for  I  am 

Love's. 


Which  then  reflects  its  eyes  and  forehead 

mild; 
Giving    for    one,    which    it    could    ne'er 

express, 
A  thousand  images  of  loveliness. 


If   I  were   one   whom  the  loud  world 
held  wise, 
I  should  disdain  to  quote  authorities 
In  commendation  of  this  kind  of  love:  — 
Why    there  is    first   the   God    in    heaven 

above, 
Who  wrote  a  book  called  Nature,  't  is  to 
be 
Here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  new  book   for   j    Reviewed,  I  hear,  in  the  next  Quarterly; 


FRAGMENTS   CONNECTED 
WITH    EPIPSYCHIDION. 


you; 
I  have  already  dedicated  two 


And  Socrates,  the  Jesus  Christ  of  Greece, 
And  Jesus  Christ  himself  did  never  cease 


To   other   friends,    one   female   and    one   !   To   urge   all   living   things   to  love   each 


male, 


other, 


420 


EPIPS  YC  HI  DION. 


And  to  forgive  their  mutual  faults,  and 

smother 
The  Devil  of  disunion  in  their  souls. 

I  love  you  !  —  Listen,  O  embodied  Ray 
Of    the    great    Brightness;     I   must   pass 

away 
While  you  remain,  and  these  light  words 

must  be 
Tokens  by  which  you  may  remember  me. 
Start    not  —  the   thing  you   are   is   unbe- 

trayed, 
If  you  are  human,  and  if  but  the  shade 
Of  some  sublimer  spirit. 

And  as  to  friend  or  mistress,  't  is  a  form; 
Perhaps    I   wish   you  were    one.     Some 

declare 
You  a  familiar  spirit,  as  you  are; 
Others  with  a  more  inhuman 

Hint  that,   tho'   not   my  wife,  you  are   a 

woman, 
What  is  the  color  of  your  eyes  and  hair? 
Why,  if  you  were  a  lady,  it  were  fair 
The  world  should  know  —  but,  as  I  am 

afraid, 
The  Quarterly  would  bait  you  if  betrayed; 
And  if,  as  it  will  be  sport  to  see  them 

stumble 
Over    all    sorts  of   scandals,  hear    them 

mumble 
Their  litany  of  curses  —  some  guess  right, 
And    others    swear   you  're  a    Hermaph- 
rodite; 
Like  that  sweet  marble  monster  of  both 

sexes, 
With  looks  so  sweet  and  gentle  that  it 

vexes 
The  very  soul  that  the  soul  is  gone 
Which  lifted  from  her  limbs  the  veil  of 

stone. 

It  is  a  sweet  thing,  friendship,  a  dear 
balm, 

A  happy  and  auspicious  bird  of  calm, 

Which  rides  o'er  life's  ever  tumultuous 
Ocean; 

A  God  that  broods  o'er  chaos  in  com- 
motion; 

A  flower  which  fresh  as  Lapland  roses 
are, 

Lifts  its  bold  head  into  the  world's  frore 
air, 


And  blooms  most  radiantly  when  others 

die, 
Health,  hope,  and  youth,  and  brief  pros- 
perity; 
And  with  the  light  and  odor  of  its  bloom, 
Shining    within     the    dungeon    and     the 

tomb; 
Whose  coming  is  as  light  and  music  are 
Mid  dissonance  and  gloom —  a  star 
Which     moves     not     mid     the     moving 

heavens  alone  — 
A  smile   among   dark  frowns  — a  gentle 

tone 
Among  rude  voices,  a  beloved  light, 
A  solitude,  a  refuge,  a  delight. 
If    I  had  but    a    friend !      Why,   I    have 

three 
Even  by  my  own  confession;    there  may 

be 
Some  more,  for  what   I  know,  for   't  is 

my  mind 
To  call  my  friends  all  who  are  wise   and 

kind,  — 
And   these,  Heaven  knows,   at  best    are 

very  few; 
But   none   can   ever  be  more  dear  than 

you. 
Why  should  they  be?     My  muse  has  lost 

her  wings, 
Or  like    a    dying    swan  who    soars    and 

sings, 
I  should  describe  you  in  heroic  style, 
But  as  it  is,  are  you  not  void  of  guile? 
A  lovely  soul,   formed    to  be   blest   and 

bless: 
A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness; 
A    lute    which    those    whom     Love    has 

taught  to  play 
Make    music    on   to    cheer  the  roughest 

day, 
And  enchant  sadness  till  it  sleeps? 

To  the  oblivion  whither  I  and  thou, 
All  loving  and  all  lovely,  hasten  now 
With  steps,    ah,   too    unequal  !    may   we 

meet 
In  one  Elysium  or  one  winding  sheet ! 

If  any  should  be  curious  to  discover 
Whether  to  you  I  am  a  friend  or  lover, 
Let    them    read    Shakespeare's   sonnets, 

taking  thence 
A  whetstone  for  their  dull  intelligence 


EPIPS  YC HID  ION. 


421 


That  tears  and  will  not  cut,  or  let  them   j  And    then  withdrawn,   and  with    incon- 
stant glance 
I   Flash  from  the  spirit  to  the  countenance. 


guess 
Kovf  Diotima,  the  wise  prophetess, 
Instructed  the  instructor,  and  why  he 
Rebuked  the  infant  spirit  of  melody 
On  Agathon's  sweet   lips,  which   as   he 

spoke 


There  is  a  Power,  a  Love,  a  Joy,  a  God 
Which  makes  in  mortal  hearts  its  brief 

abode, 
A  Pythian  exhalation,  which  inspires 


Was  as  the  lovely  star  when  morn  has   j   Love,  only  love  —  a  wind  which  o'er  the 

broke  wires 

The    roof    of    darkness,    in    the    golden   j  Of  the  soul's  giant  harp 


dawn, 
Half-hidden,  and  yet  beautiful 


My  hopes  of  Heaven  — 
they  are  worth  — 

That    the    presumptuous   pedagogues  of 
Earth, 

If  they  could  tell  the  riddle  offered  here 

Would  scorn  to  be,  or  being  to  appear 

What  now  they  seem  and  are  —  but  let 
them  chide, 

They  have   few  pleasures   in   the  world 
beside; 

Perhaps  we  should  be  dull  were  we  not 
chidden, 

Paradise   fruits   are    sweetest   when  for- 
bidden. 

Folly  can  season  Wisdom,  Hatred  Love. 

Farewell,  if  it  can  be  to  say  farewell 
To  those  who  — 

I  will  not,  as  most  dedicators  do, 
Assure  myself  and  all  the  world  and  you, 
That  you  are  faultless  —  would  to  God 

they  were 
Who  taunt  me  with  your  love  !     I  then 

should  wear 
These  heavy  chains  of  life  with  a  light 

spirit, 
And  would  to  God  I  were,  or  even   as 

near  it 
As  you,  dear  heart.    Alas  !  what  are  we? 

Clouds 
Driven   by  the  wind    in  warring    multi- 
tudes, 
Which  rain  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
And   rise   again,  and  in   our  death  and 

birth, 
A.nd  thro'  our  restless  life,  take  as  from 

heaven 
Hues  which  are  not  our  own,  but  which 

are  given, 


There  is  a  mood  which  language  faints 
beneath; 
I'll  pawn    j  You  feel  it  striding,  as  Almighty  Death 
vou  know  what   I   His  bloodless  steed. 


And  what  is  that  most  brief  and  bright 

delight 
Which    rushes    through    the    touch    and 

through  the  sight, 
And   stands    before    the    spirit's    inmost 

throne, 
A    naked    Seraph?      None    hath    ever 

known. 
Its    birth    is    darkness,    and    its   growth 

desire; 
j   Untameable  and  fleet  and  fierce  as  fire, 
j   Not  to  be  touched  but  to  be  felt  alone, 
It    fills    the  world  with    glory  —  and    is 

gone. 

It  floats  with   rainbow  pinions  o'er  the 
stream 
I  Of  life,  which  flows,  like  a  dream 

Into  the  light  of  morning,  to  the  grave 

!  As  to  an  ocean. 

I 

!  What  is  that  joy  which  serene  infancy 
Perceives  not,  as  the  hours  content  them 

Each  in  a  chain  of  blossoms,  yet  enjoys 
The  shapes  of  this  new  world,  in  giant 

toys 
Wrought  by  the  busy  ever  new? 

Remembrance  borrows  Fancy's  glass,  to 

show 
These  forms  more  sincere 

Than  now  they  are,  than  then,  perhaps, 

they  were. 
When  everything  familiar  seemed  to  be 
Wonderful,  and  the  immortality 
Of    this  great   world,   which    all    things 

must  inherit, 


422 


A  DONA  IS. 


Was    felt    as    one    with    the    awakening 

spirit, 
Unconscious  of  itself,  and  of  the  strange 
Distinctions    which    in    its     proceeding 

change 
It  feels  and    knows,   and  mourns    as    if 

each  were 
A  desolation. 

Were  it  not  a  sweet  refuge,  Emily, 

For  all  those  exiles  from  the  dull  insane 

Who  vex  this  pleasant  world  with  pride 

and  pain, 
For  all  that  band  of  sister-spirits  known 
To  one  another  by  a  voiceless  tone? 


ADONAIS : 

AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN 
KEATS,  AUTHOR  OF  ENDYMION, 
HYPERION,  Etc. 

'Actttjp  Trpiv  ixev  vjAa/xTre?  evl  ^Jjoktiv  'Edw 
Hivv  6e  6av(t)v  Aa/X7reis  ''Ecr7repo?  ev  (f)9Lfj.evoL<;. 
Plato. 

PREFACE. 

Qapp-aKOv  rj\6e,  Bt'ajv,  ttqti  o~bv  crrofxa,  (fxxpixaxov 

elSes.  _ 
IIaj<j  rev    tois    \ei\eo-cn    TTOTtSpap.e,    kovk    £y\v- 

Kav0ri  ; 
Ti?  8e  fipor'cx;  Toaaovrou  ai'ajaepo?,  7)  Kepacrai  tol, 
*H  Sovecu  \a\eovri  to  (jta.pij.aKOi'  ;  eK(f)vyev  il)8du. 
Moschus,   Epitaph.  Bion. 

It  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the 
London  edition  of  this  poem  a  criticism 
upon  the  claims  of  its  lamented  object  to 
be  classed  among  the  writers  of  the  highest 
genius  who  have  adorned  our  age.  My 
known  repugnance  to  the  narrow  princi- 
ples of  taste  on  which  several  of  his  earlier 
compositions  were  modelled  prove  at 
least  that  I  am  an  impartial  judge.  I 
consider  the  fragment  of  Hyperion,  as 
second  to  nothing  that  was  ever  produced 
by  a  writer  of   the  same  years. 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome  of  a  con- 
sumption,  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  on 

the of  1821;    and  was  buried 

in  the  romantic  and  lonely  cemetery  of 
the  Protestants  in  that  city,  under  the 
pyramid  which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius, 
and  the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now 
mouldering   and    desolate,  which  formed 


the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome.  The  ceme- 
tery is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins, 
covered  in  winter  with  violets  and  daisies. 
It  might  make  one  in  love  with  death,  to 
think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so 
sweet  a  place. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to 
whose  memory  I  have  dedicated  these 
unworthy  verses  was  not  less  delicate 
and  fragile  than  it  was  beautiful;  and 
where  cankerworms  abound,  what  won- 
der if  its  young  flower  was  blighted  in 
the  bud?  The  savage  criticism  on  his 
Endymion,  which  appeared  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review,  produced  the  most  violent 
effect  on  his  susceptible  mind;  the  agita- 
tion thus  originated  ended  in  the  rupture 
of  a  bloodvessel  in  the  lungs;  a  rapid 
consumption  ensued,  and  the  succeed- 
ing acknowledgments  from  more  candid 
critics  of  the  true  greatness  of  his  pow- 
ers were  ineffectual  to  heal  the  wound 
thus  wantonly  inflicted. 

It  may  be  well  said  that  these  wretched 
men  know  not  what  they  do.  They 
scatter  their  insults  and  their  slanders 
without  heed  as  to  whether  the  poisoned 
shaft  lights  on  a  heart  made  callous  by 
many  blows,  or  one  like  Keats's  com- 
posed of  more  penetrable  stuff.  One  of 
their  associates  is,  to  my ,  knowledge,  a 
most  base  and  unprincipled  calumniator. 
As  to  "  Endymion,"  was  it  a  poem, 
whatever  might  be  its  defects,  to  be 
treated  contemptuously  by  those  who  had 
celebrated,  with  various  degrees  of  com- 
placency and  panegyric,  "  Paris,"  and 
"Woman,"  and  a  "Syrian  Tale,"  and 
Mrs.  Lefanu,  and  Mr.  Barrett,  and  Mr. 
Howard  Payne,  and  a  long  list  of  the 
illustrious  obscure?  Are  these  the  men 
who  in  their  venal  good  nature  presumed 
to  draw  a  parallel  between  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Milman  and  Lord  Byron?  What  gnat 
did  they  strain  at  here,  after  having 
swallowed  all  those  camels?  Against 
what  woman  taken  in  adultery  dares  the 
foremost  of  these  literary  prostitutes  to 
cast   his   opprobrious    stone?      Miserable 


you, 


one    of     the    meanest,  have 


wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest 
specimens  of  the  workmanship  of  God. 
Nor   shall    it  be   your   excuse,  that,  mur- 


A  DO  NATS. 


423 


1. 


I  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Oh  weep  for  Adonais  !  tho'  our  tears 
Thaw    not    the    frost    which    binds    so 

dear  a  head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all 

years 
To  mourn  our  loss,   rouse  thy  obscure 

compeers. 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow  ! 

Say:    "  Wifch  me 
Died  Adonais;    till  the  future  dares 


derer  as  you  are,  you  have  spoken   dag- 
gers, but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene 
of  poor  Keats's  life  were  not  made  known 
to  me  until  the   Elegy  was  ready  for  the 
press.     I  am   given    to    understand    that 
the  wound  which  his  sensitive  spirit  had 
received  from  the  criticism  of   Endymion 
was   exasperated  by  the   bitter   sense   of 
unrequited     benefits;      the     poor     fellow 
seems  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage 
of  life,  no  less  by  those  on  whom  he  had 
wasted   the   promise  of  his  genius,    than 
those  on  whom  he  had   lavished    his    for- 
tune and  his  care.     He  was  accompanied   j 
to  Rome,  and  attended  in  his  last  illness  i 
by    Mr.    Severn,    a   young   artist  of    the 
highest  promise,   who,  I   have    been   in- 
formed, "  almost  risked  his  own  life,  and 
sacrificed    every    prospect    to    unwearied 
attendance  upon  his  dying  friend."     Had   ! 
I  known  these  circumstances  before  the   j 
completion   of  my  poem,  I   should   have   ! 
been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble  tribute  of   • 
applause  to   the  more   solid   recompense   ■ 
which  the  virtuous  man  finds  in  the  recol- 
lection of  his  own  motives.     Mr.  Severn 
can  dispense  with  a  reward   from  "  such 
stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of."    His  con-   1 
duct  is  a  golden  augury  of  the  success  of   j 
his     future     career  —  may    the     unextin-   1 
guished   Spirit    of    his    illustrious    friend 
animate  the  creations  of  his   pencil,  and 
plead  against  Oblivion  for  his  name  ! 


ADONAIS 


Forget   the    Past,    his    fate    and    fame 
shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  !  " 


Where  wert  thou  mighty  Mother,  when 

he  lay, 
When    thy    Son    lay,    pierced    by    the 

shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When     Adonais     died?     With    veiled 

eyes, 
Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She   sate,  while  one,  with  soft   enam- 
oured breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With   which,   like    flowers    that    mock 
the  corse  beneath, 
He    had    adorned    and    hid    the    coming 
bulk  of  death. 


Oh  weep  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,   melancholy  Mother,  wake  and 

weep  ! 
Yet  wherefore?     Quench  within  their 

burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart 

keep 
Like  his,    a   mute  and  uncomplaining 

sleep; 
For  he  is  gone,  where   all  things  wise 

and  fair 
Descend; — oh,   dream    not    that    the 

amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death    feeds   on    his     mute    voice,    and 

laughs  at  our  despair. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep 
again  ! 

Lament  anew,  Urania!  —  He  died, 

Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal 
strain, 

Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  coun- 
try's pride, 

The  priest,  the  slave,  ami  the  liberti- 
cide, 

Trampled  and  mockt  with  many  a 
loathed  rite 


424 


A  DONA  IS. 


Of    lust    and    blood;    he    went,    un- 

terrified, 
Into  the  gulf  of  death;   but  his  clear 

Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er   earth;   the  third  among 

the  sons  of  light. 


Most     musical     of     mourners,     weep 

anew ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to 

climb; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who 

knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  thro'  that  night 

of  time 
In  which   suns    perisht;    others  more 

sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or 

God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent 

prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny 

road, 
Which    leads,    thro'    toil    and    hate,    to 

Fame's  serene  abode. 


But    now,   thy  youngest,   dearest    one 

has  perisht, 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who 

grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden 

cherisht, 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead 

of  dew; 
Most     musical     of     mourners,     weep 

anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the    loveliest  and 

the  last, 
The  bloom,  whose   petals  nipt  before 

they  blew 
Died   on   the   promise   of  the  fruit,  is 

waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies  —  the  storm  is  over- 
past. 


To  that    high   Capital,   where    kingly 

Death 
Keeps  his  pale   court  in    beauty  and 

decay, 


He   came;    and  bought,  with  price  of 

purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal.  —  Come 

away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian 

day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while 

still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake   him   not !   surely  he  takes  his 

fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all 

ill. 

VIII. 

He  will   awake    no  more,   oh,   nevei 

more  !  — 
Within  the   twilight  chamber  spread*. 

apace, 
The  shadow  of  white   Death,   and   at 

the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling- 
place; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and 

awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to 

deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the 

law 
Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal 

curtain  draw. 


IX. 


Oh  weep  for   Adonais  !  —  The   quick 

Dreams, 
The     passion  -  winged     Ministers     of 

thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom   near  the 

living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom 

he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander 

not,  — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain 

to  brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung; 

and  mourn  their  lot 
Round    the    cold    heart,  where,  after 

their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find 

a  home  again. 


A  DONA  IS. 


425 


X. 

XIII. 

And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps 

And    others    came  .   .   .  Desires    and 

his  cold  head, 

Adorations, 

And    fans    him   with    her    moonlight 

Winged   Persuasions  and  veiled  Des- 

wings, and  cries; 

tinies, 

"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is 

Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmer- 

not dead; 

ing  Incarnations 

See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint 

Of     hopes    and     fears,    and    twilight 

eyes, 

Fantasies; 

Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there 

And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 

lies 

And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by 

A   tear    some    Dream    has    loosened 

the  gleam 

from  his  brain," 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 

Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 

Came    in    slow    pomp; — the    moving 

She  knew  not  't  was  her  own;  as  with 

pomp  might  seem 

no  stain 

Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal 

She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  out- 

stream. 

wept  its  rain. 

XIV. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into 

XI. 

thought, 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 

From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and 

Washt  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming 

sweet  sound, 

them; 

Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 

Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and 

Her  eastern  watchtower,  and  her  hair 

threw 

unbound, 

The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 

Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn 

Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls 

the  ground, 

begem; 

Dimmed    the    aerial   eyes  that   kindle 

Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 

day; 

Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as   if  to 

Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 

stem 

Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 

A  greater  loss   with    one    which   was 

And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing 

more  weak; 

in  their  dismay. 

And    dull    the    barbed    fire    against    his 

frozen  cheek. 

XV. 

Lost    Echo    sits    amid    the    voiceless 

XII. 

mountains, 

Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, 

And   feeds  her  grief  with  his  remem- 

That mouth,   whence  it  was  wont   to 

bered  lay, 

draw  the  breath 

And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or 

Which  gave  it   strength  to  pierce  the 

fountains, 

guarded  wit, 

Or  amorous  birds  percht  on  the  young 

And  pass   into  the  panting  heart  be- 

green spray, 

neath 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing 

With   lightning    and   with   music :    the 

day; 

damp  death 

Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more 

Quencht  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 

dear 

And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 

Than    those    for    whose    disdain    she 

Of  moonlight  vapor,  which   the  cold 

pined  away 

night  clips, 

Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  : —  a  drear 

It  flusht  thro'  his  pale  limbs,  and  past  to 

Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all   the 

its  eclipse. 

woodmen  hear. 

+  26 


ADONAIS. 


XVI. 

Grief    made   the    young  Spring  wild, 

and  she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn 

were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves;  since  her  delight 

is  flown 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the 

sullen  year? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais :    wan  they  stand  and 

sere 
Amid   the   faint   companions    of   their 

youth, 
With  dew  all   turned  to   tears;  odor,  to 

sighing  ruth. 


Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melo- 
dious pain; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could 

scale 
Heaven,    and    could    nourish    in    the 

sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth 

complain, 
Soaring    and    screaming    round     her 

empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee:   the    curse 

of  Cain 
Light  on  his   head   who    pierced   thy 

innocent  breast, 
And  scared   the  angel  soul  that  was  its 

earthly  guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah  woe  is  me  !  Winter  is  come  and 
gone, 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving 
year; 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joy- 
ous tone; 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  re- 
appear; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead 
Seasons'  bier; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every 
brake, 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field 
and  brere; 


And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden 
snake, 
Like   unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their 
trance  awake. 

XIX. 

Thro'  wood  and  stream  and  field  and 

hill  and  Ocean 
A  quickening    life    from    the    Earth's 

heart  has  burst 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and 

motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world 

when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos;  in  its   stream 

immerst 
The   lamps    of    Heaven    flash  with   a 

softer  light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred 

thirst; 
Diffuse     themselves;     and    spend    in 

love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 

might. 

XX. 

The    leprous    corpse    toucht    by    this 

spirit  tender 
Exhales    itself    in    flowers    of    gentle 

breath; 
Like  incarnations   of  the  stars,  when 

splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine 

death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes 

beneath; 
Naught   we    know,    dies.     Shall    that 

alone  which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed   before  the 

sheath 
By  sightless   lightning?  —  the   intense 

atom  glows 
A  moment,    then  is  quencht  in    a    most 

cold  repose. 


Alas  !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should 

be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And   grief  itself  be  mortal !      Woe   is 

me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of 

what  scene 


ADONAIS. 


427 


The  actors  or  spectators?     Great  and 

mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what 

life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,   and  fields 

are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge 

the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year 

wake  year  to  sorrow. 

XXII. 

He   will  awake    no    more,    oh,   never 
more  ! 

"Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "child- 
less Mother,  rise 

Out   of   thy  sleep,    and  slake,   in  thy 
heart's  core, 

A  wound   more   fierce   than    his  with 
tears  and  sighs." 

And    all     the     Dreams    that    watcht 
Urania's  eyes, 

And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's 
song 

Had    held    in    holy    silence,     cried: 
"  Arise  !  " 

Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Mem- 
ory stung, 
From    her    ambrosial    rest    the    fading 
Splendor  sprung. 

XXIII. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that 

springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and 

drear 
The    golden    Day,  which,  on    eternal 

wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow 

and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmos-   ! 

phere 
Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her 

way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Ado- 

nais  lay. 

XXIV. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Thro'    camps    and    cities    rough    with  j 
stone,  and  steel, 


And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  airy 
tread 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 

Palms    of    her    tender    feet   where'er 
they  fell: 

And    barbed    tongues,    and    thoughts 
more  sharp  than  they 

Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could 
repel, 

Whose  sacred  blood,  like   the  young 
tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserv- 
ing way. 

xxv. 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment 

Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living 

Might, 
Blusht  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those   lips,   and   life's    pale 

light 
Flasht  thro'  those  limbs,  so  late  her 

dear  delight. 
"Leave  me  not   wild  and   drear  and 

comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless 

night ! 
Leave    me    not!"  cried    Urania:   her 

distress 
Roused  Death*,  Death  rose  and  smiled, 

and  met  her  vain  caress. 


"Stay  yet  awhile!  speak  to  me  once 

again; 
Kiss   me,  so   long  but  as  a  kiss   may 

live; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burn- 
ing brain 
That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts 

else  survive, 
With    food    of    saddest    memory  kept 

alive, 
Now  thou  art   dead,   as  if    it  were   a 

part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais!     I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art  ! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and   can  not 

thence  depart ! 


428 


A  DONA  IS. 


"O    gentle    child,    beautiful    as   thou 

wert, 
Why    didst    thou    leave    the    trodden 

paths  of  men 
Too  soon,    and  with  weak  hands  tho' 

mighty  heart 
Dare    the    unpastured    dragon    in   his 

den? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was 

then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn 

the  spear? 
Or  hadst   thou   waited  the   full  cycle, 

when 
Thy  spirit   should  have  filled  its  cres- 
cent sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled 

from  thee  like  deer. 


"The    herded    wolves,    bold  only   to 

pursue; 
The    obscene    ravens,    clamorous    o'er 

the  dead; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner 

true 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has 

fed, 
And   whose  wings    rain    contagion;  — 

how  they  fled, 
When    like    Apollo,   from    his    golden 

bow, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled  ! —  The  spoilers  tempt  no 

second  blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn 

them  lying  low. 


"The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  rep- 
tiles spawn; 

He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect 
then 

Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 

And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again; 

So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men: 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  de- 
light 

Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven, 
and  when 


It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or 
shared  its  light 
Leave   to  its  kindred  lamp  the  spirit's 
awful  night." 


Thus    ceased  she :    and  the   mountain 

shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  man- 
tles rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over   his   living   head  like   Heaven  is 

bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his 

song 
In  sorrow;    from  her  wilds  Ierne  sent 
The    sweetest    lyrist    of    her    saddest 
wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music 
from  his  tongue. 


Midst   others  of  less  note,   came   one 
frail  Form, 

A  phantom   among  men;   companion- 
less 

As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 

Whose   thunder  is  its  knell;    he,  as  I 
guess, 

Had  gazed  on   Nature's  naked  loveli- 
ness, 

Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilder- 
ness, 

And    his    own     thoughts,    along     that 
rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father 
and  their  prey. 


A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift  — 
A     Love    in    desolation     maskt;  —  a 

Power 
Girt    round    with    weakness;  —  it    can 

scarce  uplift 
The    weight    of    the    superincumbent 

hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow; — even  whilst  we 

speak 


A  DONA  IS. 


429 


Is  it   not   broken?     On   the  withering 

flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly :   on  a 

cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while 

the  heart  may  break. 


His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over- 
blown, 
And   faded  violets,   white,   and    pied, 

and  blue; 
And  a  light  spear  topt  with  a  cypress 

cone, 
Round    whose    rude    shaft    dark    ivy 

tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday 

dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook    the  weak  hand   that   graspt  it; 

of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A  herd-abandoned    deer  struck  by  the 

hunter's  dart. 

xxxiv. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled   thro'    their   tears;    well   knew 

that  gentle  band 
Who  in   another's   fate  now  wept  his 

own; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land, 
He     sung     new    sorrow;     sad     Urania 

scanned 
The  Stranger's   mien,  and  murmured: 

"  Who  art  thou?  " 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden 

hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined 

brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's  —  oh, 

that  it  should  be  so  ! 

xxxv. 

What    softer  voice    is  husht  over  the 

dead? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle 

thrown  ? 
What  form  leans   sadly  o'er   the  white 

deathbed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 


The   heavy   heart    heaving    without    a 
moan? 

If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 

Taught,   soothed,    loved,   honored  the 
departed  one; 

Let    me    not  vex,   with    inharmonious 
sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sac- 
rifice. 


Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison —  oh  ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 

crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught 

of  woe? 
The  nameless  worm  would   now  itself 

disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and 

wrong, 
But   what  was  howling  in  one  breast 

alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song. 
Whose    master's    hand   is    cold,   whose 

silver  lyre  unstrung. 

XXXVII. 

Live   thou,  whose    infamy  is  not    thy 

fame  ! 
Live !     fear    no    heavier    chastisement 

from  me, 
Thou   noteless  blot  on  a  remembered 

name  ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be  ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'er- 

flow: 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling 

to  thee; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret 

brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou 

shalt  —  as  now. 


Nor  let  us  weep   that   our   delight   is 

fled 
Far    from    these     carrion     kites    that 

scream  below; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring 

dead; 


45° 


ADONAIS. 


Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting 

now.  — 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit 

shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence 

it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must 

glow 
Thro'  time  and  change,  unquenchably 

the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid 

hearth  of  shame. 

xxxix. 

Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth 

not  sleep  — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of 

life  — 
'T  is  we,  who   lost  in  stormy  visions, 

keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance,   strike  with    our 

spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings.  —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;    fear  and 

grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume   us  day  by 

day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within 

our  living  clay. 


He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our 

night; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that    unrest   which    men    miscall 

delight, 
Can   touch   him   not  and    torture    not 

again ; 
From   the    contagion    of    the   world's 

slow  stain 
He    is    secure,    and    now    can    never 

mourn 
A  heart  grown    cold,    a   head   grown 

gray  in  vain; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased 

to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented 

urn. 

XLI. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 't  is   Death    is 
dead,  not  he; 


Mourn  not  for  Adonais.  —  Thou  young 

Dawn 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from 

thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone; 
Ye   caverns  and  ye   forests,    cease   to 

moan  ! 
Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains, 

and  thou  Air 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf 

hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave 

it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on 

its  despair  ! 

XLII. 

He  is  made   one'  with  Nature :   there 

is  heard 
His  voice  in  all   her  music,  from  the 

moan 
Of    thunder    to    the    song    of   night's 

sweet  bird; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,   from  herb 

and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power 

may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its 

own; 
Which   wields   the  world  with    never 

wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it 

above. 

XLIII. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:   he 

doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic 

stress 
Sweeps    thro'   the    dull  dense    world, 

compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they 

wear; 
Torturing    the     unwilling    dross     that 

checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may 

bear; 
And    bursting    in    its    beauty    and    its 

might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 

Heaven's  light. 


ADONAIS. 


43* 


XLIV. 

The    splendors    of    the    firmament    of 

time 
May   be    eclipst,  but    are    extinguisht 

not; 
Like  stars   to   their   appointed  height 

they  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  can  not 

blot 
The    brightness    it    may  veil.     When 

lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its   mortal 

lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,   for 

what 
Shall   be  its  earthly  doom,   the   dead 

live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark 

and  stormy  air. 


The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond 

mortal  thought, 
Far   in   the    Unapparent.      Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet   faded  from   him;     Sidney,   as    he 

fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he    lived    and 

loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose;    and   Lucan,   by  his   death   ap- 
proved : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing 
reproved. 

XLVI. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on 
Earth  are  dark, 

But  whose  transmitted  effluence  can- 
not die 

So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent 
spark, 

Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 

"Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us," 
they  cry, 

"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere 
has  long 

Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 

Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper 
of  our  throng !  " 


Who  mourns  for  Adonais?     Oh  come 

forth 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself    and 

him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pen- 
dulous Earth; 
As    from    a   centre,    dart    thy    spirit's 

light 
Beyond   all  worlds,   until  its  spacious 

might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference :    then 

shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and 

night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make 

thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured 

thee  to  the  brink. 


Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre 
Oh!  not  of  him,  but  of  our   joy:  't  is 

naught 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried   in  the    ravage    they  have 

wrought; 
For  such  as   he  can  lend,  —  they  bor- 
row not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world 

their  prey; 
And   he  is   gathered  to  the  kings  of 

thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's 

decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  can  not  pass 

away. 

XLIX. 

Go  thou  to  Rome,  —  at  once  the  Para- 
dise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilder- 
ness; 

And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered 
■  mountains  rise, 

And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant 
copses  dress 

The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 

Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall 
lead 

Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 


432 


A  DONA  IS. 


Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the 
dead 
A   light  of    laughing  flowers  along  the 
grass  is  spread. 

L. 

And    gray   walls    moulder   round,    on 

which  dull  Time 
Feeds,    like    slow    fire  upon   a   hoary 

brand; 
And   one    keen    pyramid  with   wedge 

sublime, 
Pavilioning    the     dust    of     him    who 

planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and 

beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,   on  which  a   newer 

band 
Have   pitcht  in  Heaven's  smile    their 

camp  of  death 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  ex- 

tinguisht  breath. 


Here  pause :   these  graves  are   all  too 

young  as  yet 
To   have   outgrown   the   sorrow  which 

consigned 
Its  charge  to  each;    and  if  the  seal  is 

set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning 

mind, 
Break    it    not    thou !   too    surely  shalt 

thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest 

home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.      From  the  world's 

bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,   why  fear  we  to  be- 
come? 

LII. 

The   One   remains,    the   many  change 

and  pass; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's 

shadows  fly; 
Life,    like    a    dome    of     many-colored 

.  slass> 

Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 


Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. 

—  Die, 
If  thou   wouldst  be   with   that   which 

thou  dost  seek ! 
Follow    where    all    is    fled!  —  Rome's 

azure  sky, 
Flowers,   ruins,  statues,  music,  words, 

are  weak 
The    glory    they    transfuse   with    fitting 

truth  to  speak. 

LIII. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 

my  Heart? 
Thy  hopes   are  gone  before :   from  all 

things  here 
They    have    departed;     thou    shouldst 

now  depart  ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year. 
And  man,  and  woman;    and  what   still 

is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee 

wither. 
The   soft    sky  smiles,  —  the  low  wind 

whispers  near; 
'T  is  Adonais  calls  !  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can 

join  together. 

LIV. 

That    Light  whose    smile  kindles    the 
Universe, 

That  Beauty  in  which  all   things  work 
and  move, 

That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing 
Curse 

Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustain- 
ing Love 

Which  thro'  the  web  of   being  blindly 
wove 

By  man   and  beast  and   earth   and  air 
and  sea, 

Burns   bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mir- 
rors of 

The  fire  for  which  all  thirst;  now  beams 
on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mor- 
tality. 

LV. 

The   breath   whose    might   I   have    in- 
voked in  song 


ADONAIS. 


433 


Descends   on  me;   my  spirit's  bark  is 
driven, 

Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trem- 
bling throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest 
given; 

The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are 
riven  ! 

I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 

Whilst  burning  thro'  the  inmost  veil  of 
Heaven, 

The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eter- 
nal are. 


CANCELLED   PASSAGES   FROM 
ADONAIS. 

Passages  of  the  Preface. 

.  .  .  the  expression  of  my  indignation 
and  sympathy.  I  will  allow  myself  a  first 
and  last  word  on  the  subject  of  calumny 
as  it  relates  to  me.  As  an  author  I  have 
dared  and  invited  censure.  If  I  under- 
stand myself,  I  have  written  neither  for 
profit  nor  for  fame.  I  have  employed  my 
poetical  compositions  and  publications 
simply  as  the  instruments  of  that  sympa- 
thy between  myself  and  others  which  the 
ardent  and  unbounded  love  I  cherished 
for  my  kind  incited  me  to  acquire.  I  ex- 
pected all  sorts  of  stupidity  and  insolent 
contempt  from  those   .    .    . 

.  .  .  These  compositions  (excepting 
the  tragedy  of  the  "  Cenci,"  which  was 
written  rather  to  try  my  powers  than  to 
unburden  my  full  heart)  are  insufficiently 
.  .  .  commendation  than  perhaps  they  de- 
serve, even  from  their  bitterest  enemies; 
but  they  have  not  attained  any  correspond- 
ing popularity.  As  a  man,  I  shrink  from 
notice  and  regard;  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  world  vexes  me;  I  desire  to  be  left 
in  peace.  Persecution,  contumely,  and 
calumny,  have  been  heaped  upon  me  in 
profuse  measure;  and  domestic  conspiracy 
and  legal  oppression  have  violated  in  my 
persop  the  most  sacred  rights  of  nature 
and  humanity.  The  bigot  will  say  it  was 
the  recompense  of  my  errors;  the  man  of 
the  world  will  call  it  the  result  of  my  im- 


prudence; but  never  upon  one  head  .   .   . 

.  .  .  Reviewers,  with  some  rare  excep- 
tions, are  a  most  stupid  and  malignant 
race.  As  a  bankrupt  thief  turns  thief- 
taker  in  despair,  so  an  unsuccessful  author 
turns  critic.  But  a  young  spirit  panting 
for  fame,  doubtful  of  its  powers,  and  cer- 
tain only  of  its  aspirations,  is  ill-qualified 
to  assign  its  true  value  to  the  sneer  of  this 
world.  He  knows  not  that  such  stuff  as 
this  is  of  the  abortive  and  monstrous 
births  which  time  consumes  as  fast  as  it 
produces.  He  sees  the  truth  and  false- 
hood, the  merits  and  demerits,  of  his  case 
inextricably  entangled  .  .  .  No  personal 
offence  should  have  drawn  from  me  this 
public  comment  upon  such  stuff   .    .   . 

.  .  .  The  offence  of  this  poor  victim 
seems  to  have  consisted  solely  in  his  in- 
timacy with  Leigh  Hunt,  Mr.  Hazlitt, 
and  some  other  enemies  of  despotism 
and  superstition.  My  friend  Hunt  has  a 
very  hard  skull  to  crack,  and  will  take  a 
deal  of  killing.  I  do  not  know  much  of 
Mr.  Hazlitt,  but   .... 

...  I  knew  personally  but  little  of 
Keats;  but  on  the  news  of  his  situation 
I  wrote  to  him,  suggesting  the  propriety 
of  trying  the  Italian  climate,  and  invit- 
ing him  to  join  me.  Unfortunately  he 
did  not  allow  me  .   .   . 


Passages  of  the  Poem. 

And  ever  as  he  went  he  swept  a  lyre 
Of  unaccustomed  shape,  and 

strings 
Now  like  the  of  impetuous 

fire, 
Which  shakes  the  forest  with  its  mur- 

murings, 
Now  like  the  rush  of  the  aerial  wings 
Of    the  enamoured  wind    among    the 

treen, 
Whispering  unimaginable  things, 
And    dying    on    the    streams    of    dew 

serene, 
Which    feed    the  unmown  meads  with 

ever-during  green. 

And  the  green  Paradise  which  western 
waves 


434 


HELLAS. 


Embosom  in  their  ever-wailing  sweep, 

Talking  of  freedom  to  their  tongue- 
less  caves, 

Or  to  the  spirits  which  within  them 
keep 

A  record  of  the  wrongs  which,  tho' 
they  sleep, 

Die  not,  but  dream  of  retribution, 
heard 

His  hymns,  and  echoing  them  from 
steep  to  steep, 

Kept  — 

And   then    came    one    of    sweet    and 

earnest  looks, 
Whose  soft  smiles   to    his    dark    and 

night-like  eyes 
Were    as   the    clear    and    ever-living 

brooks 
Are  to  the  obscure  fountains  whence 

they  rise, 
Showing  how  pure  they  are  :  a  Paradise 
Of  happy  truth  upon  his  forehead  low 
Lay,    making  wisdom    lovely,  in    the 

guise 
Of    earth-awakening  morn    upon    the 

brow 
Of  star-deserted  heaven,  while  ocean 

gleams  below. 

His  song,  though  very  sweet,  was  low 

and  faint, 
A  simple  strain  — 

A  mighty  Phantasm,  half 

concealed 
In    darkness    of    his    own    exceeding 

light, 
Which  clothed  his  awful  presence  un- 

revealed, 
Charioted  on  the  night 

Of  thunder-smoke,  whose  skirts  were 

chrysolite. 

And  like  a  sudden  meteor,  which  out- 
strips 

The  splendor-winged  chariot  of  the 
sun, 

eclipse 

The  armies  of  the  golden  stars,  each 
one 

Pavilioned  in  its  tent  of  light  —  all 
strewn 

(  )ver  the  chasms  of  blue  night  — 


HELLAS. 

A   LYRICAL   DRAMA. 

MANTIS   'EIM'   'E20AON    'ATIINQN 
CEdip.  Colon. 

TO 

HIS    EXCELLENCY 
PRINCE    ALEXANDER    MAVROCORDATO 

LATE    SECRETARY    FOR    FOREIGN    AFFAIRS 
TO    THE    HOSPODAR    OF    WALLACHIA 

THE    DRAMA    OF    HELLAS 

IS    INSCRIBED 

AS    AN    IMPERFECT    TOKEN 

OF    THE 

ADMIRATION,    SYMPATHY,     AND    FRIENDSHIP 

OF 

THE   AUTHOR. 
Pisa,  November  i,  1821. 


PREFACE. 

The  poem  of  "Hellas,"  written  at  the 
suggestion  of  the  events  of  the  moment, 
is  a  mere  improvise,  and  derives  its  inter- 
est (should  it  be  found  to  possess  any) 
solely  from  the  intense  sympathy  which 
the  Author  feels  with  the  cause  he  would 
celebrate. 

The  subject,  in  its  present  state,  is  in- 
susceptible of  being  treated  otherwise 
than  lyrically,  and  if  I  have  called  this 
poem  a  drama  from  the  circumstance  oi 
its  being  composed  in  dialogue,  the 
license  is  not  greater  than  that  which  has 
been  assumed  by  other  poets  who  have 
called  their  productions  epics,  only  be- 
cause they  have  been  divided  into  twelve 
or  twenty-four  books. 

The  "  Persae"  of  iEschylus  afforded  me 
the  first  model  of  my  conception,  although 
the  decision  of  the  glorious  contest  now 
waging  in  Greece  being  yet  suspended 
forbids  a  catastrophe  parallel  to  the  re- 
turn of  Xerxes  and  the  desolation  of  the 
Persians.      I   have,   therefore,   contented 


HELLAS. 


435 


myself  with  exhibiting  a  series  of  lyric 
pictures,  and  with  having  wrought  upon 
the  curtain  of  futurity,  which  falls  upon 
the  unfinished  scene,  such  figures  of  in- 
distinct and  visionary  delineation  as  sug- 
gest the  final  triumph  of  the  Greek  cause 
as  a  portion  of  the  cause  of  civilization 
and  social  improvement. 

The  drama  (if  drama  it  must  be  called) 
is,  however,  so  inartificial  that  I  doubt 
whether,  if  recited  on  the  Thespian  wag- 
on to  an  Athenian  village  at  the  Diony- 
siaca,  it  would  have  obtained  the  prize 
of  the  goat.  I  shall  bear  with  equa- 
nimity any  punishment,  greater  than  the 
loss  of  such  a  reward  which  the  Aristarchi 
of  the  hour  may  think  fit  to  inflict. 

The  only  goat-song  which  I  have  yet 
attempted  has,  I  confess,  in  spite  of  the 
unfavorable  nature  of  the  subject,  re- 
ceived a  greater  and  a  more  valuable 
portion  o<  applause  than  I  expected  or 
than  it  dt^erved. 

Common  fame  is  the  only  authority 
which  I  c\n  allege  for  the  details  which 
foim  the  basis  of  the  poem,  and  I  must 
trespass  upon  the  forgiveness  of  my 
readers  for  the  display  of  newspaper  eru- 
dition to  which  I  have  been  reduced. 
Undoubtedly,  until  the  conclusion  of  the 
war,  it  will  be  impossible  to  obtain  an 
account  of  it  sufficiently  authentic  for 
historic?!  materials;  but  poets  have  their 
privilege,  and  it  is  unquestionable  that 
actions  of  the  most  exalted  courage  have 
been  performed  by  the  Greeks  —  that 
they  h^.ve  gained  more  than  one  naval 
victory,  and  that  their  defeat  in  Walla- 
chia  was  signalized  by  circumstances  of 
heroism  more  glorious  even  than  victory. 

The  apathy  of  the  rulers  of  the  civilized 
world  to  the  astonishing  circumstance  of 
the  descendants  of  that  nation  to  which 
they  owe  their  civilization,  rising  as  it 
were  from  the  ashes  of  their  ruin,  is 
something  perfectly  inexplicable  to  a 
mce  spectator  of  the  shows  of  this  mor- 
tal scene.  We  are  all  Greeks.  Our 
laws,  our  literature,  our  religion,  our  arts  j 
have  their  root  in  Greece.  Rut  for 
Greece  —  Rome,  the  instructor,  the  con- 
queror, or  the  metropolis  of  our  ances- 
tors, would  have  spread  no  illumination 


with  her  arms,  and  we  might  still  have 
been  savages  and  idolaters;  or,  what  is 
worse,  might  have  arrived  at  such  a 
stagnant  and  miserable  state  of  social 
institution  as  China  and  Japan  possess. 

The  human  form  and  the  human  mind 
attained  to  a  perfection  in  Greece  which 
has  impressed  its  image  on  those  faultless 
productions,   whose   very    fragments  are 
I   the  despair  of  modern  art,  and  has  prop- 
!   agated    impulses    which     cannot    cease, 
through  a  thousand  channels  of  manifest 
;    or   imperceptible   operation,   to    ennoble 
and  delight  mankind  until  the  extinction 
of  the  race. 
The  modern  Greek  is  the  descendant  of 
i  those  glorious  beings  whom  the  imagina- 
j  tion   almost  refuses  to  figure  to  itself  as 
J   belonging   to   our   kind,  and   he   inherits 
|  much  of  their  sensibility,  their  rapidity  of 
j  conception,    their   enthusiasm,   and  their 
I  courage.     If  in  many  instances  he  is  de- 
graded by  moral  and  political   slavery  to 
|  the  practice  of  the  basest  vices  it  engen- 
ders, and  that  below  the  level  of  ordinary 
\   degradation;    let  us  reflect  that  the  cor- 
|  ruption  of  the  best  produces  the  worst, 
|   and  that  habits  which  subsist  only  in  rela- 
tion to  a  peculiar  state  of  social  institution 
may  be  expected  to  cease  as  soon  as  that 
relation  is  dissolved.     In  fact,  the  Greeks, 
|  since  the  admirable  novel  of    "  Anasta- 
j    sius  "  could  have  been  a  faithful  picture 
of  their  manners,   have   undergone  most 
important  changes  ;    the   flower  of  their 
youth,    returning  to  their    country   from 
the   universities   of  Italy,  Germany,   and 
France,  have   communicated  to  their   fel- 
low-citizens the  latest  results  of  that  social 
perfection  of  which   their  ancestors  were 
the   original   source.      The    university  of 
Chios  contained  before  the  breaking  out 
of  the  revolution  eight  hundred  students, 
and   among   them    several    Germans  and 
Americans.     The  munificence  and  energy 
of  many  of  the  Greek   princes  and   mer- 
chants,   directed    to     the     renovation    of 
their  country  with  a  spirit  and  a  wisdom 
which    has    few    examples,   is  above    all 
praise. 

The  English  permit  their  own  oppress- 
ors to  act  according  to  their  natural  sym- 
pathy with  the  Turkish  tyrant,  and  to  brand 


436 


HELLAS. 


upon  their  name  the  indelible  blot  of  an 
alliance  with  the  enemies  of  domestic  hap- 
piness, of  Christianity  and  civilization. 

Russia  desires  to  possess,  not  to  liberate 
Greece;  and  is  contented  to  see  the  Turks, 
its  natural  enemies,  and  the  Greeks,  its 
intended  slaves,  enfeeble  each  other  until 
one  or  both  fall  into  its  net.  The  wise 
and  generous  policy  of  England  would 
have  consisted  in  establishing  the  inde- 
pendence of  Greece,  and  in  maintaining 
it  both  against  Russia  and  the  Turk;  — 
but  when  was  the  oppressor  generous  or 
just? 

The  Spanish  Peninsula  is  already  free. 
France  is  tranquil  in  the  enjoyment  of  a 
partial  exemption  from  the  abuses  which 
its  unnatural  and  feeble  government  are 
vainly  attempting  to  revive.  The  seed  of 
blood  and  misery  has  been  sown  in  Italy, 
and  a  more  vigorous  race  is  arising  to  go 
forth  to  the  harvest.  The  world  waits 
only  the  news  of  a  revolution  of  Germany 
to  see  the  tyrants  who  have  pinnacled 
themselves  on  its  supineness  precipitated 
into  the  ruin  from  which  they  shall  never 
arise.  Well  do  these  destroyers  of  man- 
kind know  their  enemy,  when  they  impute 
the  insurrection  in  Greece  to  the  same 
spirit  before  which  they  tremble  through- 
out the  rest  of  Europe,  and  that  enemy 
well  knows  the  power  and  the  cunning  of 
its  opponents,  and  watches  the  moment 
of  their  approaching  weakness  and  inev- 
itable division  to  wrest  the  bloody  scep- 
tres from  their  grasp. 


HELLAS. 


A   LYRICAL   DRAMA. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Mahmud. 

Hassan. 

Daood. 

Ahasuerus,  a  Jew. 
Chorus  of  Greek  Captive  Women. 
Messengers,  Slaves,  and  A  ttendants. 
Scene,  Constantinople.     Time,  Sunset. 


SCENE.  —  A  Terrace  on  the 
Seraglio. 

Mahmud  sleeping,  an  Indian  Slave 
sitting  beside  his  Couch. 

Chorus  of  Greek  Captive  Women. 
We  strew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow, — 
They  were  stript  from  Orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
theirs    who    fell  —  not    ours  who 


Like 


weep 


Indian. 


Away,  unlovely  dreams  ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep  ! 
Be  his,  as  Heaven  seems, 
Clear,  and  bright,  and  deep  ! 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death, 
Sweet    as    a    summer    night    without   a 
breath. 

Chorus. 
Sleep,  sleep  !  our  song  is  laden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 
Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none   may  wake,  where  none 
shall  weep. 

Indian. 

I  touch  thy  temples  pale  ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee  ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  would  live  to  weep, 
So  thou  might'st  win  one  hour  of  quiet 
sleep. 

Chorus. 

Breathe  low,  low 

The  spell  of  the  mighty  mistress  now  ! 

When  Conscience  lulls  her  sated  snake, 

And  Tyrants  sleep,   let  Freedom  wake. 

Breathe  low  —  low 

The  words  which,  like  secret  fire,  shall 

flow 
Thro'   the  veins  of  the  frozen  earth  — 
low,  low  ! 


HELLAS. 


437 


Semichorus  L. 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not; 
Truth  be  veiled,  but  still  it  burneth; 
Love  repulsed,  — but  it  returneth  ! 

Semichorus  IL. 
Yet  were  life  a  charnel  where 
Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair; 
Yet  were  truth  a  sacred  lie, 
Love  were  lust  — 

Semichorus  L. 

If  Liberty 
Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Hope  its  iris  of  delight, 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear, 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 

Chorus. 

In  the  great  morning  of  the  world, 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 
The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos, 

And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled, 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus, 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread.  — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendor  burst  and  shone:  — 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted, 

The     springing     Fire.  —  The     winged 
glory 
On  Phi'lippi  half-alighted, 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 
From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man, 

It  lived;    and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland. 

Then  night  fell;    and,  as  from  night, 

Reassuming  fiery  flight, 

From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came, 
Against    the    course    of     Heaven     and 
doom, 

A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame, 
To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 

From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams 

Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 

France,  with  all  her  sanguine  steams, 
Hid,  but  quencht  it  not;    again 
Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 
From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 


As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 

Scorns  the  embattled  tempests'  warning, 

When  she  seeks  her  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mountain-cedar's  hair, 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging 

Of  her  wings  thro'  the  wild  air, 
Sick  with  famine: — Freedom,  so 

To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Returns;   her  hoary  ruins  glow 
Like  Orient  mountains  lost  in  day; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurslings  prey, 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave  —  where'er  she  flies, 
A  Desert,  or  a  Paradise : 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

Semichorus  I. 

With  the  gifts  of  gladness 
Greece  did  thy  cradle  strew; 

Semichorus  II. 
With  the  tears  of  sadness 

Greece  did  thy  shroud  bedew ! 

Semichorus  I. 
With  an  orphan's  affection 

She  followed  thy  bier  thro'  Time; 
Semichortis    II. 
And  at  thy  resurrection 

Reappeareth,  like  thou,  sublime! 

Semichorus  I. 
If  Heaven  should  resume  thee, 

To  Heaven  shall  her  spirit  ascend; 

Semichorus  II. 
If  Hell  should  entomb  thee, 

To  Hell  shall  her  high  hearts  bend. 

Semichorus  I. 
If  Annihilation  — 

Semichorus  II. 

Dust  let  her  glories  be  ! 

And  a  name  and  a  nation 

Be  forgotten,  Freedom,  with  thee! 

India  ft. 
His  brow  grows  darker  — breathe  not  — 

move  not ! 
He   starts  —  he   shudders — ya  that  love 

not, 


43S 


HELLAS. 


With  your  panting  loud  and  fast, 
Have  awakened  him  at  last. 
Mahmud(  starting  from  his  sleep).     Man 

the  Seraglio-guard  !   make  fast  the 

gate. 
What !   from  a  cannonade  of   three  short 

hours? 
'T  is  false  !  that  breach  towards  the  Bos- 

phorus 
Cannot  be  practicable  yet —  who  stirs? 
Stand  to  the   match;   that   when  the   foe 

prevails 
One  spark  may  mix  in  reconciling  ruin 
the     conqueror     and    the     conquered ! 

Heave  the  tower 
Into  the  gap  —  wrench  off  the  roof. 

(£«/^Hassan.)  Ha!  what! 

The  truth  of  day  lightens  upon  my  dream 
And  I  am  Mahmud  still. 

Hassan.  Your  Sublime  Highness 

Is  strangely  moved. 

Mahmud.  The  times  do  cast 

strange  shadows 
On  those  who  watch   and  who  must  rule 

their  course, 
Lest  they,  being  first  in  peril  as  in  glory, 
Be  whelmed  in  the  fierce  ebb: — and  these 

are  of  them. 
Thrice  has  a  gloomy  vision  hunted  me 
As  thus  from  sleep  into  the  troubled  day; 
It  shakes  me  as  the   tempest  shakes  the 

sea, 
Leaving  no  figure  upon  memory's  glass. 
Would    that  —  no    matter.      Thou    didst 

say  thou  knewest 
A  Jew,  whose  spirit  is  a  chronicle 
Of    strange    and    secret    and    forgotten 

things. 
I  bade  thee  summon  him: —  'tis  said  his 

tribe 
Dream,     and    are    wise    interpreters    of 

dreams. 
Hassan.     The  Jew  of  whom  I  spake  is 

old,  —  so  old 
He  seems  to  have  outlived  a  world's  de- 
cay; 
The   hoary  mountains  and  the  wrinkled 

ocean 
Seem  younger  still  than  he ;  —  his  hair  and 

beard 
Are  whiter  than  the  tempest-sifted  snow; 
His  cold  pale  limbs  and  pulseless  arteries 
Are  like  the  fibres  of  a  cloud  instinct 


With  light,  and  to  the  soul  that  quickens 

them 
Are  as  the  atoms  of  the  mountain-drift 
To  the  winter-wind;  —  but  from  his  eye 

looks  forth 
A    life    of    unconsumed    thought    which 

pierces 
The  present,  and  the   past,  and   the   to- 
come. 
Some  say  that  this  is  he  whom   the  great 

prophet 
Jesus,  the  son  of  Joseph,  for  his  mockery 
Mockt  with  the  curse  of  immortality. 
Some    feign    that    he    is    Enoch;     others 

dream 
He  was  pre-adamite  and  has  survived 
Cycles  of  generation  and  of  ruin. 
The  sage,  in  truth,  by  dreadful  abstinence 
And  conquering  penance  of  the  mutinous 

flesh, 
Deep  contemplation,  and  unwearied  study, 
In  years  outstretcht  beyond   the  date  of 

man, 
May   have    attained    to    sovereignty    and 

science 
Over  those  strong  and  secret  things  and 

thoughts 
Which  others  fear  and  know  not. 

Mahmud.  I  would  talk 

With  this  old  Jew. 

Hassan.  Thy  will  is  even  now 

Made  known  to  him,  where  he  dwells  in 

a  sea-cavern 
Mid  the  Demonesi,  less  accessible 
Than     thou    or    God !      He    who    would 

question  him 
Must    sail    alone    at    sunset,    where    the 

stream 
Of    Ocean  sleeps  around  those  foamless 

isles, 
When   the  young  moon  is  westering  as 

now, 
And  evening  airs  wander  upon  the  wave; 
And  when  the  pines  of  that  bee-pasturing 

isle, 
Green     Erebinthus,     quench     the     fiery 

shadow 
Of     his    gilt    prow    within    the    sapphire 

water, 
Then  must  the  lonely  helmsman  cry  aloud 
"  Ahasucrus  !  "   and  the  caverns  round 
Will  answer  "  Ahasuerus  !  "     If  his  prayer 
Be  granted,  a  faint  meteor  will  arise 


HELLAS. 


439 


Lighting  him  over  Marmora,  and  a  wind 
Will  rush  out  of  the  sighing  pine- forest, 
And  with  the  wind  a  storm  of  harmony 
Unutterably  sweet,  and  pilot  him 
Thro'  the  soft  twilight  to  the  Bosphorus: 
Thence  at  the  hour  and  place  and  circum- 
stance 
Fit  for  the  matter  of  their  conference 
The  Jew   appears.     Few   dare,  and   few 

who  dare 
Win  the  desired  communion  —  but  that 

shout 
Bodes  —  [A  shout  within. 

Mahmud.  Evil,  doubtless;    like 

all  human  sounds. 
Let  me  converse  with  spirits. 

Hassan.  That  shout  again. 

Mahmud.       This  Jew  whom  thou  hast 

summoned  — 
Hassan.  Will  be  here  — 

Mahmud.  WThen  the   omnipotent 

hour  to  which  are  yoked 
He,    I,    and    all    things    shall   compel  — 

enough. 
Silence   those   mutineers  —  that  drunken 

crew, 
That  crowd   about  the  pilot  in  the  storm. 
Ay !    strike    the    foremost     shorter    by  a 

head  ! 
They  weary  me,  and  I  have  need  of  rest. 
Kings  are  like  stars  —  they  rise   and   set, 

they  have 
The  worship  of  the  world,  but  no  repose. 
\_Exeunt  severally. 

Chorus. 

Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 
From  creation  to  decay, 

Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  thro'  birth's  Orient  portal 

And  death's  dark    chasm    hurrying   to 
and  fro, 
Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 
In  the  brief  dust  and  light 

Gathered  around  their  chariots  as  they 

go; 
New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 
New  gods,  new  laws  receive, 
Bright  or  dim  are  they  as  the  robes  they 
last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 


A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came; 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapor  dim 
Which  the  Orient  planet  animates  with 
light; 
Hell,  Sin,  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed,  until  their  Lord  had  taken 
flight; 
The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal 
noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 
From  one  whose  dreams   are  Para- 
dise 
Fly,  when   the   fond  wretch  wakes  to 
weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank 

eyes; 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled   from  the  folding  star  of  Bethle- 
hem: 
Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 
And  even  Olympian  Jove 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared 
on  them; 
Our  hills  and  seas  and  streams 
Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 
Their  wa-ters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew 
to  tears, 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 
Enter  Mahmud,  Hassan,  Daood, 

and  others. 
Mahmud.     More  gold?  our  ancestors 
bought  gold  with  victory, 
And  shall  I  sell  it  for  defeat? 

Daood.  The  Janizars 

Clamor  for  pay. 

Mahntud.  Go  !  bid  them  pay 

themselves 
With    Christian    blood !     Are    there    no 

Grecian  virgins 
Whose  shrieks  and  spasms  and  tears  they 

may  enjoy? 
No  infidel  children  to  impale  on  spears? 
No  hoary  priests  after  that  Patriarch 


440 


HELLAS. 


Who  bent  the  curse  against  his  country's 

heart, 
Which  clove  his  own  at   last?     Go!  bid 

.^era  kill; 
Blood  is  the  seed  of  gold. 

Daood.  It  has  been  sown, 

And  yet  the  harvest  to  the  sickle-men 
Is  as  a  grain  to  each. 

Mahmud.  Then,  take  this  signet, 

Unlock  the  seventh  chamber  in  which  lie 
The  treasures  of  victorious  Solyman,  — 
An   empire's   spoil   stored   for    a    day  of 

ruin. 
O  spirit  of  my  sires  !  is  it  not  come? 
The  prey-birds  and  the  wolves  are  gorged 

and  sleep; 
But  these,  who  spread  their  feast  on  the 

red  earth, 
Hunger  for  gold,  which  fills  not.  —  See 

them  fed; 
Then,  lead   them  to  the  rivers  of  fresh 

death.  [Exit  Daood. 

O  miserable  dawn,  after  a  night 
More    glorious    than    the    day    which    it 

usurpt ! 
O  faith  in  God  !  O  power  on  earth  !   O 

word 
Of  the  great  prophet,  whose  o'ershadow- 

ing  wings 
Darkened  the  thrones  and  idols  of  the 

West, 
Now  bright !  —  For  thy  sake   cursed  be 

the  hour, 
Even  as  a  father  by  an  evil  child, 
When  the  Orient   moon  of   Islam   rolled 

in  triumph 
From  Caucasus  to  White  Ceraunia  ! 
Ruin  above,  and  anarchy  below; 
Terror  without,  and  treachery  within; 
The  Chalice  of  destruction  full,  and  all 
Thirsting  to   drink;  and  who  among  us 

dares 
To  dash  it    from   his   lips?   and  where    is 

Hope? 
Hassan.     The  lamp  of   our  dominion 

still  rides  high; 
One    God    is     God  —  Mahomet     is      his 

prophet. 
Four   hundred    thousand    Moslems   from 

the  limits 
Of  utmost  Asia,  irresistibly 
Throng,  like  full  clouds  at  the  Sirocco's 

cry.; 


But  not  like  them  to  weep  their  strength 

in  tears : 
They  bear  destroying  lightning,  anJ  their 

step 
Wakes  earthquake  to  consume  and  over- 
whelm, 
And  reign  in  ruin.     Phrygian  Olympus, 
Tmolus,     and     Latmos,     and     Mycale, 

roughen 
With  horrent  arms;  and  lofty  ships  even 

now, 
Like  vapors  anchored  to    a    mountain's 

edge, 
Freighted  with  fire  and  whirlwind,  wait 

at  Scala 
The  convoy  of  the  ever-veering  wind. 
Samos  is  drunk  with  blood;  — the  Greek 

has  paid 
Brief  victory  with  swift    loss    and    long 

despair. 
The  false  Moldavian  serfs   fled  fast  and 

far, 
When    the    fierce    shout    of    Allah-illa- 

Allah  ! 
Rose   like  the  war-cry  of  the    northern 

wind 
Which    kills    the    sluggish    clouds,    and 

leaves  a  flock 
Of  wild  swans  struggling  with  the  naked 

storm. 
So  were  the  lost  Greeks  on  the  Danube's 

day  ! 
If  night  is  mute,  yet  the  returning  sun 
Kindles  the  voices  of  the  morning  birds; 
Nor  at  thy  bidding  less  exultingly 
Than  birds  rejoicing  in  the  golden  day, 
The  Anarchies  of  Africa  unleash 
Their  tempest- winged  cities  of  the  sea, 
To  speak  in  thunder  to  the  rebel  world. 
Like    sulphurous    clouds,    half-shattered 

by  the  storm, 
They  sweep   the   pale  /Egean,  while  the 

Queen 
Of  Ocean,  bound  upon  her  island-throne, 
Far  in  the  West   sits  mourning   that   her 

sons 
Who   frown   on   Freedom  spare   a  smile 

for  thee: 
Russia  still  hovers,  as  an  eagle  might 
Within  a   cloud,  near  which   a  kite   and 

crane 
Hang  tangled  in  inextricable  fight, 
To  stoop  upon  the  victor;  —  for  she  fears 


HELLAS. 


441 


The  name  of  Freedom,  even  as  she  hates      Shrinks    on    the    horizon's    edge,    while, 


thint 


from  above, 


But  recreant  Austria  loves   thee   as    the       One    star    with    insolent     and    victorious 


Grave 


light 


Loves  Pestilence,  and   her   slow  dogs   of       Hovers    above    its    fall,    and    with    keen 

beams, 
Like  arrows  thro'  a  fainting  antelope, 
Strikes  its  weak  form  to  death. 

Hassan.  Even  as  that  moon 

Renews  itself  — 

Mahtnud.  Shall   we   be  not 

renewed  ! 
Far  other   bark    than   ours  were   needed 

now 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  descending  time: 
The  spirit   that  lifts  the   slave   before  his 

lord 
Stalks     through     the    capitals    of     armed 

kings, 
And  spreads  his  ensign  in  the  wilderness: 
Exults   in    chains;    and,   when   the   rebel 

falls, 
Cries    like    the    blood   of  Abel    from   the 

dust ; 
And    the    inheritors    of     the    earth,    like 

beasts 
When  earthquake  is  unleasht,  with  idiot 

fear 
Cower  in  their  kingly  dens  —  as  I  do  now. 


Flesht   with   the   chase,   come    up    from 

Italy, 
And  howl  upon  their  limits;  for  they  see 
The   panther,  Freedom,   tied   to  her   old 

cover, 
Amid  seas  and  mountains,  and  a  mightier 

brood 
Crouch   round.     What  Anarch  wears  a 

crown  or  mitre, 
Or  bears  the  sword,  or  grasps  the  key  of 

gold, 
Whose  friends  are  not  thy  friends,  whose 

foes  thy  foes? 
Our  arsenals  and  our  armories  are  full; 
Our  forts  defy  assault;  ten  thousand  can- 
non 
Lie  ranged  upon  the  beach,  and  hour  by 

hour 
Their  earth-convulsing  wheels  affright  the 

city: 
The  galloping  of  fiery  steeds  makes  pale 
The  Christian  merchant;    and  the  yellow 

Jew 
Hides  his  hoard   deeper   in   the   faithless   j   What   were    Defeat    when   Victory   must 


earth. 
Like  clouds,  and  like  the  shadows  of  the 

clouds, 
Over  the  hills  of  Anatolia, 
Swift  in  wide  troops  the  Tartar  chivalry 


appal  ? 

Or  Danger,  when  Security  looks  pale?  — 
How    said    the   messenger- — who,    from 

the  fort 
Islanded  in  the  Danube,  saw  the  battle 


Sweep: — the  far-flashing  of  their  starry    |    Of   Bucharest  ?  — that 


lances 

Reverberates  the  dying  light  of  day. 

We  have  one  God,  one  King,  one  Hope, 
one  Law: 

But  many-headed  Insurrection  stands 

Divided  in  itself,  and  soon  must  fall. 
Mahtnud.       Proud  words,  when  deeds 
come  short,  are  seasonable; 

Look,  Hassan,  on  yon  crescent  moon,  em- 
blazoned 

Upon  that  shattered  flag  of  fiery  cloud 

Which  leads    the  rear  of    the  departing 
day: 

Wan  emblem  of  an  empire  fading  now  ! 

See  how  it  trembles  in  the  blood-red  air, 

And    like   a   mighty   lamp   whose    oil    is 
spent 


Hassan.  Ibrahim's  scimitar 

Drew  with   its   gleam   swift   victory  from 

heaven, 
To  burn   before  him  in  the   night  of  bat- 
tle— 
A  light  and  a  destruction. 

Mahmnd.  Ay  !  the  day 

Was  ours  :    but  how  ?  — 

Hassan.  The  light  Wallachians, 

The  Arnaut,  Servian,  and  Albanian  allies 
Fled  from  the  glance  of  our  artillery 
Almost  before  the  thunder-stone  alit. 
One  half  the  Grecian  army  made  a  bridge 
Of    safe    and    slow  retreat,  with   Moslem 

dead 
The  other  — 

Mahtnud.        Speak  —  tremble  not.  — 


HELLAS. 


Hassan.  Islanded 

By    victor    myriads,     formed    in    hollow 

square 
With  rough  and  steadfast  front,  and  thrice 

flung  back 
The  deluge  of  our  foaming  cavalry; 
Thrice  their  keen  wedge  of  battle  pierced 

our  lines. 
Our  baffled  army  trembled  like  one  man 
Before  a  host,  and  gave  them  space;    but 

soon, 
From  the  surrounding  hills,  the  batteries 

blazed, 
Kneading  them  down  with  fire  and  iron 

rain: 
Yet   none  approacht;    till,  like  a  field  of 

corn 
Under  the  hook  of  the  swart  sickle-man, 
The  band,  intrencht  in  mounds  of  Turk- 
ish dead, 
Grew    weak    and  few.  —  Then    said    the 

Pacha,  "  Slaves, 
Render  yourselves  —  they  have  abandoned 

you  — 
What  hope  of  refuge,  or  retreat,  or  aid? 
We     grant    your     lives."      "Grant     that 

which  is  thine  own  !  " 
Cried  one,  and   fell  upon  his  sword  and 

died  ! 
Another — "God,    and   man,   and    hope 

abandon  me; 
But  I  to  them,  and  to  myself,  remain 
Constant :"  —  he  bowed  his  head  and  his 

heart  burst. 
A  third   exclaimed,  "There  is  a  refuge, 

tyrant, 
Where  thou  darest  not  pursue,  and  canst 

not  harm, 
Should'st  thou    pursue;    there    we    shall 

meet  again." 
Then  held    his   breath,  and,   after  a  brief 

spasm, 
The  indignant  spirit  cast   its  mortal  gar- 
ment 
Among  the  slain  —  dead  earth  upon  the 

earth  ! 
So  these  survivors,  each  by  different  ways, 
Some   strange,  all    sudden,  none   dishon- 
orable, 
Met  in  triumphant  death;    and  when  our 

army 
Closed   in,  while   yet   wonder,   and  awe, 

and  shame, 


Held  back  the  base  hyenas  of  the  battle 
That    feed    upon    the    dead    and  fly  the 

living, 
One  rose  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  slain: 
And  if  it  were  a  corpse  which  some  dread 

spirit 
Of  the  old  saviors  of  the  land  we  rule 
Had  lifted  in  its  anger  wandering  by;  — 
Or  if  there  burned  within  the  dying  man 
Unquenchable    disdain    of     death,    and 

faith 
Creating    what    it     feigned; — I    cannot 

tell  — 
But  he  cried,  "  Phantoms  of  the  free,  we 

come  ! 
xA.rmies  of  the  Eternal,  ye  who  strike 
To  dust  the  citadels  of  sanguine  kings, 
And    shake    the  souls    throned    on  their 

stony  hearts, 
And  thaw  their  frost-work  diadems  like 

dew ;  — 
O  ye  who  float   around   this  clime,  and 

weave 
The  garment  of  the  glory  which  it  wears, 
Whose    fame,  tho'   earth  betray  the   dust 

it  claspt, 
Lies  sepulchred  in  monumental  thought; 
Progenitors  of  all  that  yet  is  great, 
Ascribe  to  your  bright  senate,  O  accept 
In    your    high     ministrations,     us,     your 

sons  — ■ 
Us   first,    and    the   more   glorious  yet  to 

come  ! 
And   ye,    weak   conquerors!    giants  who 

look  pale 
When  the   crusht   worm    rebels  beneath 

your  tread, 
The    vultures    and    the   dogs,  your   pen- 
sioners tame, 
Are  overgorged;  but,  like  oppressors,  still 
They    crave    the    relic    of    Destruction's 

feast. 
The  exhalations  and  the  thirsty  winds 
Are    sick    with   blood;     the    dew   is   foul 

with   death; 
Heaven's  light   is  quencht  in  slaughter: 

thus,  where'er 
Upon   your  camps,   cities,   or  towers,  or 

fleets, 
The  obscene  birds  the  reeking  remnants 

cast 
Of  these  dead  limbs,  —  upon  your  streams 

and  mountains, 


HELLAS. 


443 


Upon  your  fields,  your  gardens,  and  your 

housetops, 
Where'er  the  winds   shall  creep,  or  the 

clouds  fly, 
Or  the  dews  fall,  or  the  angry  sun  look 

down 
With  poisoned  light  —  Famine  and  Pesti- 
lence, 
And    Panic,    shall  wage    war    upon    our 

side  ! 
Nature  from  all  her  boundaries  is  moved 
Against  ye :   Time  has  found  ye   light  as 

foam. 
The  Earth   rebels;    and   Good  and  Evil 

stake 
Their  empire   o'er   the   unborn  world   of 

men 
On   this   one  cast; — but  ere  the  die  be 

thrown, 
The  renovated  genius  of  our  race, 
Proud  umpire  of  the   impious  game,  de- 
scends 
A  seraph-winged  Victory,  bestriding 
The  tempest  of  the  Omnipotence  of  God, 
Which    sweeps    all    things    to    their    ap- 
pointed doom, 
And  you  to  oblivion  !  "  —  More  he  would 

have  said, 
But  — 

Mahmud.  Died —  as  thou 

shouldst  ere  thy  lips  had  painted 
Their  ruin  in  the  hues  of  our  success. 
A  rebel's  crime  gilt  with  a  rebel's  tongue  ! 
Your  heart  is  Greek,  Hassan. 

Hassan.  It  may  be  so  : 

A  spirit  not  my  own  wrencht  me  within, 
And  I  have  spoken  words  I  fear  and  hate  : 
Yet  would  I  die  for  — 

Mahmud.  Live  !  oh  live  !  outlive 

Me  and   this   sinking    empire.     But    the 

fleet  — 
Hassan.     Alas  !  — 
Mahmud.  The  fleet  which, 

like  a  flock  of  clouds 
Chased  by  the  wind,  flies  the    insurgent 

banner. 
Our  winged-castles  from  their  merchant 

ships ! 
Our    myriads    before    their    weak    pirate 

bands ! 
Our  arms  before  their  chains  !   our  years 

of  empire 
Before  their  centuries  of  servile  fear  ! 


Death    is    awake !       Repulse    is    on    the 

waters  ! 
They  own  no  more  the  thunder-bearing 

banner 
Of  Mahmud;    but,  like  hounds  of  abase 

breed, 
Gorge   from  a  stranger's  hand,  and  rend 

their  master. 
Hassan.     Latmos,  and  Ampelos,  and 

Phanx,  saw 
The  wreck  — 

Mahmud,  The  caves  of  the 

Icarian  isles 
Told  each  to  the  other  in  loud  mockery, 
And  with  the   tongue  as  of    a  thousand 

echoes, 
First  of  the  sea-convulsing  fight  —  and, 

then, — 
Thou  darest  to  speak  —  senseless  are  the 

mountains: 
Interpret  thou  their  voice  ! 

Hassan.  My  presence  bore 

A  part  in  that  day's  shame.     The  Grecian 

fleet 
Bore  down  at  daybreak  from  the  North, 

and  hung 
As  multitudinous  on  the  ocean  line, 
As   cranes  upon    the   cloudless  Thracian 

wind. 
Our   squadron,    convoying   ten   thousand 

men, 
Was  stretching  towards  Nauplia  when  the 

battle 
Was  kindled.  — 

First  thro'  the  hail  of  our  artillery 
The   agile    Hydriote  barks  with  press  of 

sail 
Dasht :—  ship  to  ship,  cannon  to  cannon, 

man 
To  man  were  grappled  in  the  embrace  of 

war, 
Inextricable  but  by  death  or  victory. 
The  tempest  of  the  raging  fight  convulst 
To  its  crystalline  depths  that  stainless  sea, 
And  shook  Heaven's  roof  of  golden  morn- 
ing clouds, 
Poised     on     a    hundred   azure    mountain 

isles. 
In  the  brief  trances  of  the  artillery 
One  cry  from  the   destroyed  and  the  de- 
stroyer 
Rose,  and  a  cloud  of  desolation  wrapt 
The  unforeseen  event,  till  the  north  wind 


444 


HELLAS. 


Sprung  from   the  sea,    lifting  the  heavy 
veil 

Of     battle-smoke  —  then     victory  —  vic- 
tory ! 

For,  as  we   thought,   three   frigates  from 
Algiers 

Bore  down   from  Naxos   to  our  aid,  but 
soon 

The   abhorred    cross    glimmered  behind, 
before, 

Among,  around  us;    and  that  fatal  sign 

Dried  with  its  beams  the  strength  in  Mos- 
lem hearts, 

As  the  sun  drinks  the  dew.  —  What  more  ? 
We  fled  !  — 

Our  noonday  path  over  the  sanguine  foam 

Was  beaconed,  —  and    the    glare   struck 
the  sun  pale,  — 

By  our  consuming  transports;    the    fierce 
light 

Made  all  the  shadows  of  our  sails  blood- 
red, 

And    every    countenance    blank.     Some 
ships  lay  feeding 

The    ravening    fire,   even  to   the  water's 
level; 

Some    were    blown    up;     some,    settling 
heavily, 

Sunk;   and  the  shrieks  of  our  companions 
died 

Upon  the  wind,  that  bore  us  fast  and  far, 

Even  after  they  were  dead.      Nine  thou- 
sand perisht ! 

We  met  the  vultures  legioned  in  the  air 

Stemming  the  torrent  of  the  tainted  wind; 

They,  screaming  from  their  cloudy  moun- 
tain peaks, 

Stoopt   thro'  the  sulphurous  battle-smoke 
and  percht 

Each   on   the   weltering   carcase  that   we 
loved, 

Like  its  ill  angel  or  its  damned  soul 

Riding  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

We   saw  the    dog-fish    hastening  to   their 
feast. 

Joy  waked  the  voiceless  people  of  the  sea, 

And  ravening  Famine  left  his  ocean  cave 

To   dwell   with   War,   with   us,   and   with 
Despair. 

We  met  night   three  hours  to  the  west  of 
Patmos, 

And  with  night,  tempest — - 

Mahmud.  Cease ! 


Efiter  a  Messenger. 
Messenger.  Your 

Sublime  Highness, 

That  Christian  hound,  the  Muscovite  Am- 
bassador 

Has  left  the  city.  —  If  the  rebel  fleet 

Had  anchored  in  the  port,  had  victory 

Crowned  the  Greek  legions  in  the  Hippo- 
drome, 

Panic  were  tamer.  — Obedience  and  Mu- 
tiny, 

Like  giants  in  contention  planet-struck, 

Stand  gazing  on  each   other.  —  There  is 
peace 

In  Stamboul.  — 

Mahmud.  Is  the  grave  not 

calmer  still? 

Its  ruins  shall  be  mine. 

Hassan.  Fear  not  the  Russian: 

The  tiger  leagues  not  with  the  stag  at  bay 

Against  the  hunter,  —  Cunning,  base,  and 
cruel, 

He   crouches,  watching  till  the  spoil  be 
won, 

And  must  be  paid  for  his  reserve  in  blood. 

After  the  war  is   fought,  yield   the  sleek 
Russian 

That  which  thou  canst  not  keep,  his  de- 
served portion 

Of    blood,    which    shall    not    flow    thro' 
streets  and  fields, 

Rivers  and  seas,  like  that  which  we  may 
win, 

But    stagnate   in  the  veins    of    Christian 
slaves  ! 
Enter  second  Messenger. 
Second  Messenger.  Nauplia,  Tripo- 

lizza,  Mothon,  Athens, 

Navarin,  Artas,  Monembasia, 

Corinth,     and    Thebes     are     carried     by 
assault, 

And  every  Islamite  who  made  his  dogs 

Fat  with  the  flesh  of  Galilean  slaves 

Past   at  the  edge  of  the  sword :    the    lust 
of  blood 

Which     made     our     warriors     drunk     is 
quencht  in  death; 

But  like  a  fiery  plague  breaks  out  anew 

In  deeds  which  make  the  Christian  cause 
look  pale 

In  its  own  light.     The  garrison  of  Patras 

Has  store  but   for  ten  days,  nor  is  there 
hope 


HELLAS. 


445 


But  from  the  Briton :   at  once  slave  and 

tyrant 
His    wishes    still    are   weaker    than    his 

fears, 
Or  he  would  sell  what  faith  may  yet  re- 
main 
From  the  oaths  broke  in  Genoa  and  in 

Norway; 
And  if  you  buy  him  not,  your  treasury 
Is   empty   even    of    promises  —  his  own 

coin. 
The  freedman  of  a  western  poet  chief 
Holds  Attica  with  seven  thousand  rebels, 
And  has  beat  back  the  Pacha  of  Negro- 

pont : 
The  aged  Ali  sits  in  Yanina 
A  crownless  metaphor  of  empire : 
His  name,  that  shadow  of  his  withered 

might, 
Holds  our  besieging  army  like  a  spell 
In  prey  to  famine,  pest,  and  mutiny; 
He,  bastioned  in  his  citadel,  looks  forth 
Joyless    upon    the    sapphire     lake    that 

mirrors 
The  ruins  of  the  city  where  he  reigned 
Childless   and   sceptreless.      The    Greek 

has  re  apt 
The     costly    harvest     his     own     blood 

matured, 
Not  the  sower,  Ali  —  who  has  bought  a 

truce 
From  Ypsilanti  with  ten  camel  loads 
Of  Indian  gold. 

Enter  a  third  Messenger. 
Mahmud.  What  more? 

Third  Messenger.  The  Christian  tribes 
Of  Lebanon  and  the  Syrian  wilderness 
Are      in      revolt;  —  Damascus,      Hems, 

Aleppo 
Tremble:  — the  Arab  menaces  Medina, 
The     Ethiop    has    intrencht    himself     in 

Sennaar, 
And  keeps  the   Egyptian   rebel  well   em- 
ployed, 
$Vho  denies  homage,  claims  investiture 
As  price  of  tardy  aid.      Persia  demands 
The  cities  on  the  Tigris,  and  the  Georgians 
Refuse    their  living  tribute.     Crete   and 

Cyprus, 
Like     mountain-twins     that     from     each 

other's  veins 
Catch    the  volcano-fire  and    earthquake 

spasm, 


Shake   in  the  general   fever.     Thro'  the 

city, 
Like  birds  before  a  storm,  the  Santons 

shriek, 
And  prophesyings  horrible  and  new 
Are    heard   among  the  crowd:    that  sea 

of  men 
Sleeps  on  the  wrecks  it  made,  breathless 

and  still. 
A  Dervise,  learned  in  the  Koran,  preaches 
That  it  is  written  how  the  sins  of  Islam 
Must  raise  up  a  destroyer  even  now. 
The  Greeks  expect  a   Saviour  from  the 

west, 
Who  shall  not  come,  men  say,  in  clouds 

and  glory, 
But  in  the  omnipresence  of  that  spirit 
In    which    all    live    and    are.      Ominous 

signs 
Are   blazoned  broadly  on    the    noonday 

sky : 
One    saw   a   red  cross  stampt  upon  the 

sun; 
!    It  has  rained  blood;  and  monstrous  births 

declare 
t  The    secret    wrath    of    Nature    and    her 

Lord. 
The  army  encampt  upon  the  Cydaris, 
Was   roused   last  night  by  the  alarm  of 

battle, 
And    saw   two    hosts    conflicting    in    the 

air, 
The   shadows   doubtless   of    the    unborn 

time 
Cast  on  the  mirror  of  the  night.     While 

yet 
The    fight  hung  balanced,  there   arose  a 

storm 
Which  swept  the  phantoms  from  among 

the  stars. 
At    the   third    watch    the    spirit    of     the 

plague 
Was  heard   abroad   flapping   among  the 

tents; 
Those    who    relieved    watch     found    the 

sentinels  dead. 
The   last   news   from   the  camp  is,  that  a 

thousand 
Have  sickened,  and  — 

Enter  a  fourth  Messenger. 
Mahmud.  And  thou,  pale 

ghost,  dim  shadow 
Of  some  untimely  rumor,  speak  ! 


446 


HELLAS. 


Fourth  Messenger.  One  comes 

Fainting   with   toil,  covered  with    foam 

and  blood: 
He  stood,  he  says,  upon  Chelonites' 
Promontory,   which    overlooks    the   isles 

that  groan 
Under  the  Briton's  frown,  and  all  their 

waters 
Then  trembling  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon, 
When,  as  the  wandering  clouds  unveiled 

or  hid 
Her  boundless  light,  he  saw  two  adverse 

fleets 
Stalk  through  the  night  in  the  horizon's 

glimmer, 
Mingling  fierce   thunders   and  sulphure- 
ous gleams, 
And  smoke  which  strangled  every  infant 

wind 
That  soothed  the  silver  clouds  thro'  the 

deep  air. 
At    length    the    battle    slept,     but    the 

Sirocco 
Awoke,  and  drove  his  flock  of  thunder- 
clouds 
Over  the  sea-horizon,  blotting  out 
All    objects  —  save    that    in    the    faint 

moon-glimpse 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw,  the  Turkish 

admiral 
And  two  the  loftiest  of  our  ships  of  war, 
With  the  bright  image  of  that  Queen  of 

Heaven 
Who    hid,    perhaps,  her    face  for  grief, 

reverst; 
And  the  abhorred  cross  — 

Enter  an  Attendant. 
Attendant.  Your  Sublime  High- 

ness, 
The  Jew,  who  — 

Mahmud.  Could  not  come 

more  seasonably: 
Bid   him    attend.     I   '11   hear   no  more ! 

too  long 
We    gaze  on  danger    thro'  the  mist    of 

fear, 
And  multiply  upon  our  shattered  hopes 
The  images  of  ruin.     Come  what  will ! 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  are  as  lamps 
Set  in  our  path  to  light  us  to  the  edge 
Thro'    rough   and  smooth,    nor   can    we 

suffer  aught 


Which  he  inflicts  not  in  whose  hand  we 
are.  [Exeunt. 

Semichorus  I. 
Would  I  were  the  winged  cloud 
Of  a  tempest  swift  and  loud  ! 
I  would  scorn 
The  smile  of  morn 
And  the  wave  where   the  moonrise  is 
born  ! 
I  would  leave 
The  spirits  of  eve 
A  shroud  for  the  corpse  of  the  day  to 
weave 
From  other  threads  than  mine  ! 
Bask  in  the  deep  blue  noon  divine 
Who  would?     Not  I. 

Semichorus  II. 
Whither  to  fly? 

Semichorus  I. 

Where  the  rocks  that  gird  the  vEgean 
Echo  to  the  battle  psean 
Of  the  free  — 
I  would  flee 
A  tempestuous  herald  of  victory  ! 
My  golden  rain 
For  the  Grecian  slain 
Should   mingle  in   tears  with  the  bloody 
main, 
And  my  solemn  thunder-knell 
Should  ring  to  the  world  the  passing 
bell 
Of  tyranny. 

Semichorus  II. 

Ah  king !    wilt  thou  chain 
The  rack  and  the  rain? 
Wilt  thou  fetter  the  lightning  and  hurri- 
cane? 
The  storms  are  free, 
But  we  — 

Chorus. 

O  Slavery !    thou    frost    of    the    world's 
prime, 
Killing  its  flowers  and  leaving  its  thorns 
bare  ! 
Thy   touch  has    stampt  these   limbs  with 
crime, 
These    brows    thy    branding    garland 
bear, 


HELLAS. 


447 


But  the  free  heart,  the  impassive  soul 
Scorn  thy  control ! 

Semichorus  I. 
Let  there  be  light !   said  Liberty, 
And  like  sunrise  from  the  sea, 
Athens  arose  !  —  Around  her  born, 
Shone  like  mountains  in  the  morn 
Glorious  states;  — and  are  they  now 
Ashes,  wrecks,  oblivion? 

Semichorus  II. 

Go, 
Where  Thermae  and  Asopus  swallowed 

Persia,  as  the  sand  does  foam, 
Deluge  upon  deluge  followed, 

Discord,  Macedon,  and  Rome:  - 
And  lastly  thou  ! 

Semichorus  I. 

Temples  and  towers, 

Citadels  and  marts,  and  they 
Who  live  and  die  there,  have  been  ours, 

And  may  be  thine,  and  must  decay; 
But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 
Built  below  the  tide  of  war, 
Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 
Of  thought  and  its  eternity; 
Her  citizens,  imperial  spirits, 

Rule  the  present  from  the  past, 
On  all  this  world  of"  men  inherits 

Their  seal  is  set. 

Semichorus  II. 

Hear  ye  the  blast, 
Whose  Orphic  thunder  thrilling  calls 
From  ruin  her  Titanian  walls? 

Whose  spirit  shakes  the  sapless  bones 
Of  Slavery  !     Argos,  Corinth,  Crete 

Hear,  and  from  their  mountain  thrones 
The  daemons  and  the  nymphs  repeat 

The  harmony. 

Semi chor its  I. 

I  hear !   I  hear ! 

Semichorus  II. 
The  world's  eyeless  charioteer, 
Destiny,  is  hurrying  by  ! 
What  faith  is  crusht,  what  empire  bleeds 
Beneath  her  earthquake-footed  steeds? 


What  eagle-winged  victory  sits 
At  her  right  hand?  what  shadow  flits 
Before?  what  splendor  rolls  behind? 
Ruin  and  renovation  cry 
Who  but  We  ? 

Semichorus  I. 

I  hear !   I  hear ! 
The  hiss  as  of  a  rushing  wind, 
The  roar  as  of  an  ocean  foaming, 
The  thunder  as  of  earthquake  coming. 

I  hear !   I  hear ! 
The  crash  as  of  an  empire  falling, 
The  shrieks  as  of  a  people  calling 
Mercy  !  mercy  !  —  How  they  thrill ! 
Then  a  shout  of  "kill!   kill!  kill!" 
And  then  a  small  still  voice,  thus  — 

Semichorus  II. 

Fear, 
Revenge    and  Wrong   bring   forth  their 
kind, 
The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are, 
Their  den  is  in  the  guilty  mind, 

And  Conscience  feeds   them  with  de- 
spair. 

Semichorus  I. 

In  sacred  Athens,  near  the  fane 

Of  Wisdom,  Pity's  altar  stood : 
Serve  not  the  unknown  God  in  vain, 
But  pay  that  broken  shrine  again, 
Love  for  hate  and  tears  for  blood. 

Enter  Mahmud  and  Ahasuerus. 
Mahmud.  Thou    art  a  man,   thou 

sayest,  even  as  we. 
Ahasuerus.  No  more  ! 
Mahmud.  But  raised  above 

thy  fellow-men 
By  thought,  as  I  by  power. 

A  hastier  us.  Thou  sayest  so. 

Mahmud.     Thou  art  an   adept  in  the 
difficult  lore 
Of  Greek  and  Frank   philosophy;    thou 

numberest 
The  flowers  and  thou  measurest  the  stars; 
Thou  severest  element  from  element; 
Thy  spirit  is  present  in  the  past,  and  sees 
The  birth  of  this  old  world  thro'  all  its 

cycles 
Of  desolation  and  of  loveliness, 
And  when   man  was   not,  and  how   man 
became 


HELLAS. 


The   monarch  and  the   slave  of  this  low 

sphere, 
And  all  its  narrow  circles  —  it  is  much  — 
I  honor  thee,  and  would  be  what  thou  art 
Were  I  not  what  I  am;   but  the  unborn 

hour, 
Cradled    in    fear    and    hope,     conflicting 

storms, 
Who  shall  unveil?     Nor  thou,  nor  I,  nor 

any 
Mighty  or  wise.      I  apprehended  not 
What  thou   hast   taught   me,  but  I   now 

perceive 
That  thou  art  no  interpreter  of  dreams; 
Thou   dost  not  own  that   art,  device,  or 

God, 
Can    make    the    future    present  —  let    it 

come  ! 
Moreover  thou  disdainest  us  and  ours; 
Thou   art   as   God,  whom    thou    contem- 

platest. 
Ahasuerus.     Disdain   thee  ?  —  not  the 

worm  beneath  my  feet ! 
The    Fathomless    has    care    for     meaner 

things 
Than   thou   canst   dream,  and   has  made 

pride  for  those 
Who  would  be   what   they  may  not,  or 

would  seem 
That  which  they  are  not.     Sultan  !   talk 

no  more 
Of    thee    and    me,    the    future    and    the 

past; 
But  look  on  that  which  cannot  change  — 

the  One, 
The  unborn  and  the  undying.      Earth  and 

ocean, 
Space,  and  the  isles  of  life  or  light  that 

gem 
The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air, 
This  firmament  pavilioned  upon  chaos, 
With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire, 
Whose  outwall,  bastioned  impregnably 
Against    the  escape  of  boldest    thoughts, 

repels  them 
As  Calpe  the  Atlantic  clouds  —  this  Whole 
Of     suns,    and    worlds,    and     men,    and 

beasts,   and  flowers, 
With  all  the  silent  or  tempestuous  work- 
ings 
By  which   they  have   been,  are,  or  cease 

to  be, 
Is  but  a  vision; —  all  that  it  inherits 


Are   motes  of  a"  sick  eye,    bubbles    and 

dreams; 
Thought  is  its  cradle  and  its  grave,  not 

less 
The  future  and  the  past  are  idle  shadows 
Of  thought's  eternal  flight  —  they  have  no 

being: 
Naught  is  but  that  which  feels  itself  to  be. 
Mahmud.     What  meanest  thou?    Thy 

words  stream  like  a  tempest 
Of  dazzling  mist  within  my  brain  —  they 

shake 
The   earth   on  which  I    stand,  and  hang 

like  night 
On  Heaven  above  me.     What  can  they 

avail  ? 
They  cast  on  all  things  surest,  brightest, 

best, 
Doubt,  insecurity,  astonishment. 

Ahasuerus.     Mistake  me  not !     All  is 

contained  in  each. 
Dodona's  forest  to  an  acorn's  cup 
Is   that  which   has  been,  or   will  be,   to 

that 
Which   is  —  the  absent   to    the   present 

Thought 
Alone,    and    its    quick    elements,    Will, 

Passion, 
Reason,  Imagination,  cannot  die; 
They  are,  what  that  which  they  regard 

appears, 
The  stuff  whence  mutability  can  weave 
All  that   it   hath   dominion  o'er,  worlds, 

worms, 
Empires,   and    superstitions.     What  has 

thought 
To  do  with  time,   or   place,   or  circum- 
stance? 
Wouldst  thou  behold  the   future?  —  ask 

and  have ! 
Knock  and  it    shall    be    opened  —  look 

and,  lo  ! 
The  coming  age  is  shadowed  on  the  past 
As  on  a  glass. 

Mahmud.  Wild,  wilder  thoughts 

convulse 
My    spirit  —  Did     not     Mahomet     the 

Second 
Win  Stamboul? 

Ahasuerus.  Thou  wouldst  ask 

that  giant  spirit 
The   written   fortunes  of  thy  house   and 

faith. 


HELLAS. 


449 


Thou  wouldst  cite  one  out  of  the  grave 

to  tell 
How  what  was  born  in  blood  must  die. 

Mahmud.  Thy  words 

Have  power  on  me  !  I  see  — 

Ahasuerus.  What  hearest  thou? 

Mahmud.     A  far  whisper  — 
Terrible  silence. 

Ahasuerus.  What  succeeds? 

Mahmud.  The  sound 

As  of  the  assault  of  an  imperial  city, 
The  hiss  of  inextinguishable  fire, 
The  roar    of  giant    cannon;    the    earth- 
quaking 
Fall    of    vast    bastions    and    precipitous 

towers, 
The   shock   of    crags   shot   from   strange 

enginery, 
The  clash  of  wheels,  and  clang  of  armed 

hoofs, 
And    crash    of    brazen    mail    as    of    the 

wreck 
Of    adamantine    mountains —  the    mad 

blast 
Of    trumpets,    and    the   neigh  of    raging 

steeds, 
And  shrieks  of  women  whose  thrill  jars 

the  blood, 
And  one   sweet   laugh,  most  horrible    to 

hear, 
As  of  a  joyous  infant  waked  and  playing 
With  its  dead  mother's  breast,  and   now 

more  loud 
The    mingled    battle-cry,  —  ha !    hear    I 

not 
"  'Ev  tovtw  k'k'?."     "  Allah-illah-Allah  !  " 
Ahasuerus.       The   sulphurous    mist  is 

raised  —  thou  seest  — 
Mahmud.  A  chasm, 

As  of  two  mountains  in  the  wall  of  Stam- 

boul ; 
And  in  that  ghastly  breach  the  Islamites, 
Like  giants  on  the  ruins  of  a  world, 
Stand    in    the   light    of  sunrise.      In    the 

dust 
Glimmers  a  kingless  diadem,  and  one 
Of  regal  port  has  cast  himself  beneath 
The    stream    of   war.      Another    proudly 

clad 
In  golden  arms  spurs  a  Tartarian  barb 
Into  the  gap,  and  with  his  iron  mace 
Directs  the  torrent  of  that  tide  of  men, 
And  seems  —  he  is  —  Mahomet ! 


Ahasuerus.  What  thou  secst 

Is  but  the  ghost  of  thy  forgotten  dream. 
A  dream   itself,   yet   less,    perhaps,  than 

that 
Thou  call'st  reality.       Thou  mayst 

behold 
I  low    cities,    on    which    Empire    sleeps 

enthroned, 
Bow  their  towered  crests  to  mutability. 
Poised  by  the  flood,  e'en  on  the  height 

thou  holdest, 
Thou  mayst  now  learn  how  the  full  tide 
of  power 
j    Ebbs  to  its  depths.  —  Inheritor  of  glory, 
\   Conceived   in  darkness,   born   in  blood, 
and  nourisht 
With  tears  and  toil,  thou  seest  the  mortal 

throes 
Of  that  whose  birth  was  but  the  same. 

The  Past 
Now  stands  before  thee  like  an  Incarna- 
tion 
Of  the  To-come;  yet  wouldst  thou  com- 
mune with 
That   portion  of  thyself  which  was  ere 

thou 
Didst    start    for    this   brief    race    whose 

crown  is  death, 
Dissolve  with  that  strong  faith  and  fer- 
vent passion 
Which  called  it  from  the  uncreated  deep, 
Yon  cloud  of  war,  with   its  tempestuous 

phantoms 
Of  raging  death;  and  draw  with  mighty 

will 
The  imperial  shade  hither. 

\_Exit  Ahasuerus. 
Mahmud.  Approach ! 

Phantom.  I  come 

Thence    whither   thou    must    go !     The 
grave  is  fitter 
'   To  take  the  living  than  give  up  the  dead; 
'  Yet  has  thy  faith  prevailed,   and  I  am 
here. 
The  heavy  fragments  of  the  power  which 
fell 
!  When  I  arose,  like  shapeless  crags  and 
clouds, 
Hang  round  my  throne  on  the  abyss,  and 

voices 
Of    strange  lament  soothe  my  supreme 

repose, 
Wailing  for  glory  never  to  return.  — 


45° 


HELLAS. 


A  later  Empire  nods  in  its  decay: 

The  autumn  of   a  greener  faith  is  come, 

And  wolfish   change,  like  winter,   howls 
to  strip 

The   foliage   in  which  Fame,   the   eagle, 
built 

Her    aerie,  while    Dominion  whelpt   be- 
low. 

The  storm  is  in  its  branches,  and  the  frost 

Is  on  its  leaves,  and  the  blank   deep   ex- 
pects 

Oblivion  on  oblivion,  spoil  on  spoil, 

Ruin  on  ruin:  — Thou  art  slow,  my  son; 

The  Anarchs   of  the  world   of  darkness 
keep 

A  throne   for  thee,    round   which   thine 
empire  lies 

Boundhss  and  mute;  and  for  thy  subjects 
thou, 

Like  us,   shalt  rule  the   ghosts   of  mur- 
dered life, 

The  phantoms  of  the  powers  who  rule 
thee  now  — 

Mutinous  passions,  and  conflicting  fears, 

And  hopes  that  sate  themselves  on  dust 
and  die  !  — 

Stript  of  their  mortal   strength,  as  thou 
of  thine. 

Islam   must   fall,   but  we  will  reign  to- 
gether _ 

Over  its  ruins  in  the  world  of  death :  — - 

And  if  the  trunk   be   dry,   yet  shall   the 
seed 

Unfold  itself  even  in  the  shape  of  that 

Which  gathers  birth  in  its  decay.     Wo  ! 
wo  ! 

To  the  weak  people  tangled  in  the  grasp 

Of  its  last  spasms. 

Mahmud.  Spirit,  wo  to  all! 

Wo   to  the   wronged  and  the   avenger ! 
Wo 

To  the  destroyer,  wo  to  the  destroyed! 

Wo    to    the    dupe,    and   wo   to   the   de- 
ceiver ! 

Wo    to    the    opprest,    and     wo     to     the 
oppressor  ! 

Wo  both  to  those  that  suffer  and  inflict; 

Those  who  are  born  and  those  who  die  ! 
But  say, 

Imperial  shadow  of   the  thing  I  am, 

When,  how,  by  whom,  Destruction  must 
accomplish 

Her  consummation? 


Phantom.         Ask  the  cold  pale  Hour, 
Rich  in  reversion  of  impending  death, 
When  he  shall  fall  upon  whose  ripe  gray 

hairs 
Sit  Care,  and  Sorrow,  and  Infirmity  — 
The  weight  which   Crime,  whose  wings 

are  plumed  with  years, 
Leaves  in  his  flight    from   ravaged   heart 

to  heart 
Over    the    heads  of    men,    under    which 

burden 
They    bow  themselves   unto   the   grave : 

fond  wretch  ! 
He  leans  upon  his  crutch,  and  talks  of 

years 
To  come,  and  how  in  hours  of  youth  re- 
newed 
He  will  renew  lost  joys,  and  — 

Voice  without.  Victory  !      Victory  ! 

[  7'he  Phantom  vanishes. 
Mahmud.     What  sound  of  the  impor- 
tunate earth  has  broken 
My  mighty  trance? 

Voice  without.  Victory!      Victory! 

Mahmud.       Weak     lightning     before 

darkness  !   poor  faint  smile 
Of   dying  Islam !     Voice    which   art    the 

response 
Of  hollow  weakness  !     Do  I  wake  and 

live? 
Were  there  such  things,  or  may  the  un- 
quiet brain, 
Vext  by  the   wise  mad  talk  of  the  old 

Jew, 
Have  shaped  itself  these  shadows  of  its 

fear? 
It  matters  not !  —  for  naught  we  see  or 

dream, 
Possess,    or    lose,   or   grasp  at,   can    be 

worth 
More  than  it   gives  or  teaches.      Come 

what  may, 
The  future  must  become  the  past,  and  I 
As  they  were  to  whom  once  this  present 

hour, 
This  gloomy   crag    of    time    to   which  I 

cling, 
Seemed  an  Elysian  isle  of  peace  and  joy 
Never  to  be  attained. — -I  must  rebuke 
This  drunkenness  of  triumph  ere  it  die, 
And     dying,    bring     despair.       Victory ! 

poor  slaves  ! 

[Exit  Mahmud 


HELLAS. 


45' 


Voice  without.     Shout   in   the  jubilee 

of  death  !     Thf^  Greeks 
Are  as  a  brood  of  lions  in  the  net 
Round  which  the  kingly  hunters  of  the 

earth 
Stand  smiling.     Anarchs,  ye  whose  daily 

food 
Are  curses,  groans,  and  gold,  the  fruit  of 

death 
From  Thule  to  the  girdle  of  the  world, 
Come,  feast !  the  board  groans  with  the 

flesh  of  men; 
The    cup    is    foaming    with   a    nation's 

blood, 
Famine   and    Thirst  await !    eat,    drink, 

and  die  ! 

Semichorus  I. 

Victorious  Wrong,  with  vulture  scream, 
Salutes  the  risen  sun,  pursues  the  flying 

day! 
I  saw  her,  ghastly  as  a  tyrant's  dream, 
Perch  on  the  trembling  pyramid  of  night, 
Beneath  which  earth  and  all  her  realms 

pavilioned  lay 
In  visions  of  the  dawning  undelight. 

Who  shall  impede  her  flight? 

Who  rob  her  of  her  prey? 
Voice    without.       Victory !       Victory ! 

Russia's  famisht  eagles 
Dare  not  to  prey  beneath  the  crescent's 

light. 
Impale    the    remnant    of    the    Greeks ! 

despoil ! 
Violate  !   make  their  flesh  cheaper  than 

dust ! 

Semichorus  II. 

Thou  voice  which  art 
The  herald  of  the  ill  in  splendor  hid  ! 

Thou  echo  of  the  hollow  heart 
Of  monarchy,  bear  me  to  thine  abode 
When  desolation  flashes  o'er  a  world 
destroyed: 
Oh,    bear    me   to   those  isles   of    jagged 
cloud 
Which    float    like    mountains    on    the 
earthquake,  mid 
The  momentary  oceans  of  the  lightning, 
Or  to  some  toppling  promontory  proud 
Of  solid  tempest  whose  black  pyramid, 
Riven,    overhangs    the    founts    intensely 
brightning 


Of  those  dawn-tinted  deluges  of  fire 
Before  their  waves  expire, 
When  heaven   and  earth  are   light,  and 

only  light 
In  the  thunder  night ! 

Voice    without.       Victory !      Victory ! 
Austria,  Russia,  England, 
I  And  that  tame  serpent,  that  poor  shadow, 
France, 
Cry  peace,  and  that  means  death  when 
monarchs  speak. 
I  Ho,  there  !  bring  torches,  sharpen  those 
red  stakes, 
These   chains   are   light,  fitter  for  slaves 
and  poisoners 


Than    Greeks, 
let  none 


plunder  !     burn  ! 


Semichorus  I. 
Alas  !   for  Liberty  ! 
If  numbers,  wealth,  or  unfulfilling  years, 
Or  fate,  can  quell  the  free  ! 
Alas  !   for  Virtue,  when 
Torments,  or  contumely,  or  the  sneers 

Of  erring  judging  men 
Can  break  the  heart  where  it  abides. 
Alas  !  if  Love,  whose  smile  makes  this 
obscure  world  splendid, 
Can  change  with  its  false  times  and 
tides, 
Like  hope  and  terror,  — 
Alas  for  Love  ! 
And    Truth,    who    wanderest    lone    and 

unbefriended, 
If    thou    canst    veil    thy    lie-consuming 
mirror 
Before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  Error, 
Alas  for  thee  !     Image  of  the  Above. 

Semichorus  II. 
Repulse,    with    plumes    from    con- 
quest torn, 
Led  the  ten  thousand  from  the  limits   of 
the  morn 
Thro'  many  an  hostile  Anarchy ! 
At   length  they  wept   aloud,   and  cried, 
"The  Sea!   the  Sea!  " 
Thro'       exile,      persecution,      and 
despair, 
Rome    was,   and    young    Atlantis 

shall  become 
The  wonder,  or  the  terror,  or  the 
tomb 


45^ 


HELLAS. 


Of  all  whose  step  wakes  Power  lulled  in 
her  savage  lair: 
But  Greece  was  as  a  hermit  child, 
Whose   fairest    thoughts    and    limbs 
were  built 
To  woman's  growth,  by  dreams  so  mild, 
She  knew  not  pain  or  guilt; 
And  now,  O  Victory,  blush  !  and  Empire 
tremble 
When  ye  desert  the  free  — 
If  Greece  must  be 
A    wreck,    yet    shall    its   fragments    re- 
assemble, 
And  build  themselves  again  impregnably 

In  a  diviner  clime, 
To  Amphionic  music  on  some  Cape  sub- 
lime, 
Which  frowns   above    the   idle   foam   of 
Time. 

Semichorus  L. 

Let  the  tyrants  rule  the  desert  they  have 
made ; 
Let  the  free  possess  the  paradise  they 
claim; 
Be  the   fortune  of  our  fierce  oppressors 
weighed 
With    our    ruin,    our    resistance,    and 
our  name  ! 

Semichorus  II. 

Our    dead    shall    be    the    seed    of    their 

decay, 
Our   survivors   be  the  shadow  of  their 

pride, 
Our  adversity  a  dream  to  pass  away  — 
Their     dishonor     a     remembrance     to 

abide  ! 
Voice    without.      Victory !      Victory ! 

The  bought  Briton  sends 
The  keys  of  ocean  to  the  Islamite.  — 
Now  shall  the    blazon    of  the    cross    be 

veiled, 
And  British  skill  directing  Othman  might, 
Thunder-strike  rebel  victory.     Oh,  keep 

holy 
This  jubilee  of  unrevenged  blood  ! 
Kill  !  crush  !  despoil  !      Let  not  a  Greek 

escape  ! 

Semichorus  I. 

Darkness  lias  dawned  in  the  Fast 
On  the  noon  of   time  : 


The  death-birds  descend  to  their  feast, 
From  the  hungry  clime. 

Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 
To  a  sunnier  strand, 

And  follow  Love's  folding  star 
To  the  Evening  land  ! 

Semichorus  II. 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  exhausted  horn, 
With  the  sunset's  fire: 
The  weak  day  is  dead, 

But  the  night  is  not  born; 
And,  like  loveliness  panting  with  wild  de- 
sire 
While  it  trembles  with  fear  and  delight, 
Hesperus  flies  from  awakening  night. 
And  pants  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with 
light 
Fast  flashing,  soft,  and  bright. 
Thou  beacon  of  love  !  thou  lamp  of  the 
free  ! 
Guide  us  far,  far  away, 
To  climes  where  now  veiled  by  the  ardor 
of  day 
Thou  art  hidden 
From  waves  on  which  weary  Noon, 
Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 
Between  kingless  continents  sinless 

as  Eden, 
Around   mountains   and  islands    in- 
violably 
Prankt  on  the  sapphire  sea. 

Semichorus  I. 

Thro'  the  sunset  of  hope, 
Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream, 
What     Paradise     islands     of     glory 
gleam  ! 
Beneath  Heaven's  cope, 
Their  shadows  more  clear  float  by  — 
The  sound  of  their   oceans,   the  light 

of  their  sky, 
The   music  and    fragrance    their    soli- 
tudes breathe 
Burst,   like   morning  on   dream,   or    like 
Heaven  on  death 
Thro'  the  walls  of  our  prison; 
And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen! 

Chorus. 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 
The  golden  years  return, 


NOTES   TO  BELLAS. 


453 


The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn: 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires 

gleam, 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far; 
A  new  Feneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star. 
Where    fairer    Tempes    bloom,    there 

sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 
Fraught  with  a  later  prize; 

Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 
And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 

A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 

Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free : 

Altho'  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 


Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendor  of  its  prime; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued: 

Not    gold,     not     blood,     their     altar 
dowers, 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

Oh,  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


NOTES. 

(  I  )  The  quenchless  ashes  ofMila  n  [  p .  43  7  ] . 

Milan  was  the  centre  of  the  resistance 
of  the  Lombard  league  against  the  Aus- 
trian tyrant.  Frederic  Barbarossa  burnt 
the  city  to  the  ground,  but  liberty  lived 
in  its  ashes,  and  it  rose  like  an  exhalation 
from  its  ruin.  See  Sismondi's  "  Histoire 
des  Republiques  Italiennes,"  a  book 
which  has  done  much  towards  awakening 
the  Italians  to  an  imitation  of  their  great 
ancestors. 

(2)   The  Chorus{^.  437]. 

The  popular  notions  of  Christianity  are 
represented  in  this  chorus  as  true  in  their 
relation  to  the  worship  they  superseded, 
and  that  which  in  all  probability  they  will 
supersede, without  considering  their  merits 
in  a  relation  more  universal.  The  first 
stanza  contrasts  the  immortality  of  the 
living  and  thinking  beings  which  inhabit 
the  planets,  and  to  use  a  common  and 
inadequate  phrase,  clothe  themselves  in 
matter,  with  the  transience  of  the  noblest 
manifestations  of  the  external  world. 

The  concluding  verses  indicate  a  pro- 
gressive state  of  more  or  less  exalted 
existence,  according  to  the  degree  of 
perfection  which  every  distinct  intelli- 
gence may  have  attained.  Let  it  not  be 
supposed  that  I  mean  to  dogmatize  upon 
a  subject,  concerning  which  all  men  are 
equally  ignorant,  or  that  I  think  the  Gor- 
dian  knot  of  the  origin  of  evil  can  be 
disentangled  by  that  or  any  similar  asser- 
tions. The  received  hypothesis  of  a 
Being  resembling  men  in  the  moral  attri- 
butes of  his  nature,  having  called  us  out 
of  non-existence,  and  after  inflicting  on 
us  the  misery  of  the  commission  of  error, 
should  superadd  that  of  the  punishment 
and  the  privations  consequent  upon  it, 
still  would  remain  inexplicable  and  in- 
credible. That  there  is  a  true  solution 
of  the  riddle,  and  that  in  our  present 
state  that  solution  is  unattainable  by  us, 
are  propositions  which  may  be  regarded 
as  equally  certain  :  meanwhile,  as  it  is  the 
province  of  the  poet  to  attach  himself  to 


454 


NOTES    TO   HELLAS. 


those  ideas  which  exalt  and  ennoble  hu- 
manity, let  him  be  permitted  to  have  con- 
jectured the  condition  of  that  futurity 
towards  which  we  are  all  impelled  by  an 
inextinguishable  thirst  for  immortality. 
Until  better  arguments  can  be  produced 
than  sophisms  which  disgrace  the  cause, 
this  desire  itself  must  remain  the  strong- 
est and  th  >  only  presumption  that  eternity 
is  the  inheritance  of  every  thinking  being. 

(3)  No  hoary  priests  after  that  patriarch 

[p.  439]- 

The  Greek  Patriarch  after  having  been 
compelled  to  fulminate  an  anathema 
against  the  insurgents  was  put  to  death 
by  the  Turks. 

Fortunately  the  Greeks  have  been 
taught  that  they  cannot  buy  security  by 
degradation, and  the  Turks,  though  equally 
cruel,  are  less  cunning  than  the  smooth- 
faced tyrants  of  Europe.  As  to  the  an- 
athema, his  Holiness  might  as  well  have 
thrown  his  mitre  at  Mount  Athos  for  any 
effect  that  it  produced.  The  chiefs  of 
the  Greeks  are  almost  all  men  of  com- 
prehension and  enlightened  views  on  re- 
ligion and  politics. 

(4)  The  freed/nan  of  a  western  poet  chief 

[P-  4451- 
A  Greek  who  had  been  Lord  Byron's 
servant  commands  the  insurgents  in  At- 
tica. This  Greek,  Lord  Byron  informs 
me,  though  a  poet  and  an  enthusiastic 
patriot,  gave  him  rather  the  idea  of  a 
timid  and  unenterprising  person.  It  ap- 
pears that  circumstances  make  men  what 
they  are,  and  that  we  all  contain  the 
germ  of  a  degree  of  degradation  or  of 
greatness  whose  connection  with  our 
character  is  determined  by  events. 

(5)  The  Greeks  expect  a  Saviour  from 

the  -vest  [p.  445]. 

It  is  reported  that  this  Messiah  had 
arrived  at  a  seaport  near  Lacedoemon  in 
an  American  brig.  The  association  of 
names  and  ideas  is  irresistibly  ludicrous, 
but  the  prevalence  of  such  a  rumor 
strongly  marks  the  state  of  popular  en- 
thusiasm in   Greece. 


(6)    The  sound  as  of  the  assault  of  an 
Lmperial  city  [p.  449]. 

For  the  vision  of  Mahmud  of  the  taking 
of  Constantinople  in  1453,  see  Gibbon's 
"Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire," vol.  xii.  p.  223. 

The  manner  of  the  invocation  of  the 
spirit  of  Mahomet  the  Second  will  be 
censured  as  over  subtle.  I  could  easily 
have  made  the  Jew  a  regular  conjurer,  and 
the  Phantom  an  ordinary  ghost.  I  have 
preferred  to  represent  the  Jew  as  dis- 
claiming all  pretension,  or  even  belief,  in 
supernatural  agency,  and  as  tempting 
Mahmud  to  that  state  of  mind  in  which 
ideas  may  be  supposed  to  assume  the 
force  of  sensations  through  the  confusion 
of  thought  with  the  objects  of  thought, 
and  the  excess  of  passion  animating  the 
creations  of  imagination. 

It  is  a  sort  of  natural  magic,  suscepti- 
ble of  being  exercised  in  a  degree  by  any 
one  who  should  have  made  himself  mas- 
ter of  the  secret  associations  of  another's 
thoughts. 

(7)    The  Chorus  [p.  452]. 

The  final  chorus  is  indistinct  and  ob- 
scure, as  the  event  of  the  living  drama 
whose  arrival  it  foretells.  Prophecies 
of  wars,  and  rumors  of  wars,  etc.,  may 
safely  be  made  by  poet  or  prophet  in  any 
age,  but  to  anticipate  however  darkly  a 
period  of  regeneration  and  happiness  is 
a  more  hazardous  exercise  of  the  faculty 
which  bards  possess  or  feign.  It  will 
remind  the  reader  "  magno  nee  proximus 
intervallo  "  of  Isaiah  and  Virgil,  whose 
ardent  spirits  overleaping  the  actual  reign 
of  evil  which  we  endure  and  bewail, 
already  saw  the  possible  and  perhaps  ap- 
proaching state  of  society  in  which  the 
"  lion  shall  lie  down  with  the  lamb,''''  and 
"  omnis  feret  omnia  tellus."  Let  these 
great  names  be  my  authority  and  my 
excuse. 

(8)   Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
shall  burst  [p.  453]. 

Saturn  and  Love  were  among  the  dei- 
ties of  a  real  or  imaginary  state  of  inno 


NOTES    TO   HELLAS. 


45! 


cence  and  happiness.  .-///  those  who  fell, 
or  the  Gods  of  Greece,  Asia,  and  Egypt; 
the  One  who  rose,  or  Jesus  Christ,  at  whose 
appearance  the  idols  of  the  Pagan  World 
were  amerced  of  their  worship;  and  the 
many  unsubdued,  or  the  monstrous  ob- 
jects of  the  idolatry  of  China,  India,  the 
Antarctic  islands,  and  the  native  tribes  of 
America,  certainly  have  reigned  over  the 
understandings  of  men  in  conjunction  or 
in  succession,  during  periods  in  which  all 
we  know  of  evil  has  been  in  a  state  of 
portentous,  and,  until  the  revival  of  learn- 
ing and  the  arts,  perpetually  increasing 
activity.  The  Grecian  gods  seem  indeed 
to  have  been  personally  more  innocent, 
although  it  cannot  be  said,  that  as  far  as 
temperance  and  chastity  are  concerned, 
they  gave  so  edifying  an  example  as  their 
successor.  The  sublime  human  charac- 
ter of  Jesus  Christ  was  deformed  by  an 
imputed  identification  with  a  power,  who 
tempted,  betrayed,  and  punished  the  in- 
nocent beings  who  were  called  into  exist- 
ence by  his  sole  will;  and  for  the  period 
of  a  thousand  years,  the  spirit  of  this 
most  just,  wise,  and  benevolent  of  men, 
has  been  propitiated  with  myriads  of 
hecatombs  of  those  who  approached  the 
nearest  to  his  innocence  and  wisdom, 
sacrificed  under  every  aggravation  of 
atrocity  and  variety  of  torture.  The 
horrors  of  the  Mexican,  the  Peruvian, 
and  the  Indian  superstitions  are  well 
known. 


NOTE  ON  HELLAS,  BY 
SHELLEY. 


MRS. 


The  South  of  Europe  was  in  a  state  of 
great  political  excitement  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  year  182 1.  The  Spanish 
Revolution  had  been  a  signal  to  Italy; 
secret  societies  were  formed;  and,  when 
Naples  rose  to  declare  the  Constitution, 
the  call  was  responded  to  from  Brundu- 
sium  to  the  foot  of  the  Alps.  To  crush 
these  attempts  to  obtain  liberty,  early  in 
182 1  the  Austrians  poured  their  armies 
into  the  Peninsula:  at  first  their  coming 
rather  seemed  to  add  energy  and  resolu- 
tion to  a  people  long  enslaved.    The  Pied- 


montese  asserted  their  freedom;  Genoa 
threw  off  the  yoke  of  the  King  of  Sar- 
dinia; and,  as  if  in  playful  imitation,  tin.' 
people  of  the  little  state  of  Massa  and 
Carrara  gave  the  conge  to  their  sovereign, 
and  set  up  a  republic. 

Tuscany  alone  was  perfectly  tranquil. 
It  was  said  that  the  Austrian  minister  pre- 
sented  a  list  of    sixty  Carbonari  to  the 
Grand  Uuke,  urging  their  imprisonment; 
and  the  Grand  Duke  replied,  "I  do  not 
I    know  whether  these    sixty  men   are  Car- 
j    bonari,  but  I  know,  if   I  imprison   them, 
I    I  shall  directly  have   sixty  thousand  start 
I   up."     But,  though  the  Tuscans  had  no 
i    desire  to  disturb  the  paternal  government 
:    beneath   whose   shelter   they   slumbered, 
i    they  regarded  the  progress  of  the  various 
Italian  revolutions  with  intense  interest, 
and  hatred  for  the  Austrian  was  warm  in 
every    bosom.       But     they    had     slender 
hopes;    they  knew  that   the  Neapolitans 
!   would  offer  no  fit  resistance  to  the  regu- 
lar German   troops,    and   that  the  over- 
throw of  the  constitution  in  Naples  would 
act  as  a  decisive  blow  against  all  struggles 
for  liberty  in  Italy. 

We  have  seen  the  rise  and  progress  of 

!   reform.     But  the  Holy  Alliance  was  alive 

and  active  in  those   days,  and  few  could 

\   dream  of  the  peaceful  triumph  of  liberty. 

It  seemed  then  that  the  armed  assertion 

of  freedom  in  the  South  of  Europe  was 

the  only  hope  of  the  liberals,  as,  if  it  pre- 

I   vailed,    the   nations   of    the  north  would 

imitate  the  example.     Happily  the  reverse 

j    has  proved  the   fact.     The   countries  ac- 

)   customed  to  the  exercise  of  the  privileges 

i   of    freemen,    to    a  limited    extent,    have 

extended,  and  are  extending,  these  limits. 

Freedom    and    knowledge    have    now    a 

chance  of  proceeding  hand  in  hand;  and, 

if  it  continue  thus,  we  may  hope  for  the 

durability  of  both.     Then,  as  I  have  said 

—  in    1821 — Shelley,    as  well    as  every 

other  lover  of  liberty,    looked  upon  the 

struggles  in    Spain    and   Italy  as  decisive 

of  the   destinies  of  the  world,  probably 

for  centuries   to   come.     The  interest  he 

took  in  the  progress  of  affairs  was  intense. 

j  When    Genoa    declared    itself    free,    his 

;   hopes  were  at   their  highest.     Day  after 

|   day  he  read  the  bulletins  of  the  Austrian 


;56 


FRAGMENTS   OF  AN  UNFINISHED   DRAMA. 


army,  and  sought  eagerly  to  gather  tokens 
of  its  defeat.  He  heard  of  the  revolt  of 
Genoa  with  emotions  of  transport.  His 
whole  heart  and  soul  were  in  the  triumph 
of  the  cause.  We  were  living  at  Pisa  at 
that  time;  and  several  well-informed 
Italians,  at  the  head  of  whom  we  may 
place  the  celebrated  Vacca,  were  accus- 
tomed to  seek  for  sympathy  in  their  hopes 
from  Shelley:  they  did  not  find  such  for 
the  despair  they  too  generally  experi- 
enced, rounded  on  contempt  for  their 
southern  countrymen. 

While  the  fate  of  the  progress  of  the 
Austrian  armies  then  invading  Naples 
was  yet  in  suspense,  the  news  of  another 
revolution  filled  him  with  exultation.  We 
had  formed  the  acquaintance  at  Pisa  of 
several  Constantinopolitan  Greeks,  of  the 
family  of  Prince  Caradja,  formerly  Hos- 
podar  of  Wallachia;  who,  hearing  that 
the  bowstring,  the  accustomed  finale  of 
his  viceroyalty,  was  on  the  road  to  him, 
escaped  with  his  treasures,  and  took  up 
his  abode  in  Tuscany.  Among  these  was 
the  gentleman  to  whom  the  drama  of 
"  Hellas  "  is  dedicated.  Prince  Mavro- 
cordato  was  warmed  by  those  aspirations 
for  the  independence  of  his  country  which 
filled  the  hearts  of  many  of  his  country- 
men. He  often  intimated  the  possibility 
of  an  insurrection  in  Greece;  but  we  had 
no  idea  of  its  being  so  near  at  hand,  when, 
on  the  ist  of  April,  1821,  he  called  on 
Shelley,  bringing  the  proclamation  of  his 
cousin,  Prince  Vpsilanti,  and,  radiant 
with  exultation  and  delight,  declared  that 
henceforth  Greece  would  be  free. 

Shelley  had  hymned  the  dawn  of  liberty 
in  Spain  and  Naples,  in  two  odes  dic- 
tated by  the  warmest  enthusiasm;  he  felt 
himself  naturally  impelled  to  decorate 
with  poetry  the  uprise  of  the  descendants 
of  that  people  whose  works  he  regarded 
with  deep  admiration,  and  to  adopt  the 
vaticinatory  character  in  prophesying  their 
success.  "Hellas"  was  written  in  a 
moment  of  enthusiasm.  It  is  curious  to 
remark  how  well  he  overcomes  the  diffi- 
culty of  forming  a  drama  out  of  such  scant 
materials.  His  prophecies,  indeed,  came 
true  in  their  general,  not  their  particular, 
purport.     He  did  not   foresee  the  death 


of  Lord  Londonderry,  which  was  to  be 
the  epoch  of  a  change  in  English  politics, 
particularly  as  regarded  foreign  affairs; 
nor  that  the  navy  of  his  country  would 
fight  for  instead  of  against  the  Greeks, 
and  by  the  battle  of  Navarino  secure  their 
enfranchisement  from  the  Turks.  Almost 
against  reason,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  he 
resolved  to  believe  that  Greece  would 
prove  triumphant;  and  in  this  spirit,  augur- 
ing utimate  good,  yet  grieving  over  the 
vicissitudes  to  be  endured  in  the  interval, 
he  composed  his  drama. 

"Hellas"  was  among  the  last  of  his 
compositions,  and  is  among  the  most 
beautiful.  The  choruses  are  singularly 
imaginative,  and  melodious  in  their  versi- 
fication. There  are  some  stanzas  that 
beautifully  exemplify  Shelley's  peculiar 
style;  as,  for  instance,  the  assertion  of 
the  intellectual  empire  which  must  be 
forever  the  inheritance  of  the  country  of 
Homer,  Sophocles,  and  Plato: 

"  But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 
Built  below  the  tide  of  war ; 
Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 
Of  thought  and  its  eternity." 

And  again,  that  philosophical  truth  felici- 
tously imaged  forth  — 

"  Revenge  and  Wrong  bring  forth  their  kind: 
The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are ; 
Their  den  is  in  the  guilty  mind, 

And  Conscience  feeds  them  with  despair." 

The  conclusion  of  the  last  chorus  is 
among  the  most  beautiful  of  his  lyrics. 
The  imagery  is  distinct  and  majestic; 
the  prophecy,  such  as  poets  love  to  dwell 
upon,  the  Regeneration  of  Mankind  — 
and  that  regeneration  reflecting  back 
splendor  on  the  foregone  time,  from 
which  it  inherits  so  much  of  intellectual 
wealth,  and  memory  of  past  virtuous 
deeds,  as  must  render  the  possession  of 
happiness  and  peace  of  tenfold  value, 


FRAGMENTS   OF 
AN   UNFINISHED   DRAMA. 

The  following  fragments  are  part  of  a 
Drama  undertaken  for  the  amusement  of 
the  individuals  who  composed  our  inti- 
mate society,  but  left  unfinished.     I  have 


FRAGMENTS   OF  AN   UNFINISHED   DRAMA. 


457 


preserved  a  sketch  of  the  story  as  far 
as  it  had  been  shadowed  in  the  poet's 
mind. 

An  Enchantress,  living  in  one  of  the 
islands  of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  saves 
the  life  of  a  Pirate,  a  man  of  savage  but 
noble  nature.  She  becomes  enamoured 
of  him;  and  he,  inconstant  to  his  mortal 
love,  for  a  while  returns  her  passion;  but 
at  length,  recalling  the  memory  of  her 
whom  he  left,  and  who  laments  his  loss, 
he  escapes  from  the  Enchanted  Island, 
and  returns  to  his  lady.  His  mode  of 
life  makes  him  again  go  to  sea,  and  the 
Enchantress  seizes  the  opportunity  to 
bring  him,  by  a  spirit-brewed  tempest, 
back  to  her  Island.  M.  W.  S. 

SCENE,   BEFORE   THE    CAVERN    OF   THE 

Indian    Enchantress.       The     En- 
chantress comes  forth. 

Enchantress. 
He  came  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of 
life, 
He    fled    like    a    shadow    before    its 
noon; 
He  is  gone,  and  my  peace  is  turned  to 
strife, 
And    I    wander    and    wane    like    the 
weary  moon. 

Oh,  sweet  Echo,  wake, 
And  for  my  sake 
Make   answer   the  while   my  heart   shall 
break  ! 

But  my  heart  has  a  music  which  Echo's 
lips, 
Though    tender    and    true,    yet     can 
answer  not, 
And  the  shadow  that  moves  in  the  soul's 
eclipse 
Can   return   not   the   kiss   by  his  now 
forgot; 

Sweet  lips  !   he  who  hath 
On  my  desolate  path 
Cast    the    darkness    of    absence,    worse 
than  death  ! 

I*hc  Enchantress  makes  her  spell :  she 
;'r  anszvered  by  a  Spirit. 
Spirit.     Within   the    silent    centre   of 
the  earth 


My    mansion    is  ;    where    I    have    lived 

insphered 
From  the  beginning,  and  around  my  sleep 
Have  woven  all  the  wondrous  imagery 
Of  this  dim  spot,  which  mortals  call  the 

world; 
Infinite  depths  of   unknown  elements 
Massed  into  one  impenetrable  mask; 
Sheets  of  immeasurable  fire,  and  veins 
Of  gold  and  stone,  and  adamantine  iron. 
And  as    a    veil    in,  which   I   walk  thro' 

Heaven 
I    have   wrought    mountains,    seas,    and 

waves,  and  clouds, 
And  lastly  light,  whose  interfusion  dawns 
In  the  dark  space  of  interstellar  air. 

A  good  Spirit,  who  watches  over  the 
Pirate's  fate,  leads,  in  a  mysterious  man- 
ner, the  lady  of  his  love  to  the  Enchanted 
Isle;  and  has  also  led  thither  a  Youth, 
who  loves  the  lady,  but  whose  passion 
she  returns  only  with  a  sisterly  affection. 
The  ensuing  scene  takes  place  between 
them  on  their  arrival  at  the  Isle,  where 
they  meet,  but  without  distinct  mutual 
recognition. 

[ANOTHER   SCENE] 

Indian  Youth  and  Lady. 

Indian.       And,    if    my    grief     should 

still  be  dearer  to  me 
Than    all    the    pleasures    in    the    world 

beside, 
Why  would  you  lighten  it?  — 

lady.  I  offer  only 

That  which   I   seek,  some   human  sym- 
pathy 
In  this  mysterious  island. 

Indian.  Oh  !  my  friend, 

My    sister,  my    beloved  !  —  What    do    I 

say? 
My  brain    is  dizzy,   and  I   scarce    know 

whether 
I  speak  to  thee  or  her. 

Lady.  Peace,  perturbed  heart  ! 

I  am  to  thee  only  as  thou  to  mine, 
The  passing  wind  which  heals  the  brow 

at  noon, 
And  may  strike   cold  into  the  breast   at 

nifiht, 


45S 


FRAGMENTS   OF  AN  UNFINISHED   DRAMA. 


Yet  cannot  linger  where   it  soothes  the 

most, 
Or  long  soothe,  could  it  linger. 

Indian.  But  you  said 

You  also  loved? 

lady.  Loved  !   Oh,  I  love. 

Methinks 
This  word  of  love  is  fit  for  all  the  world, 
And    that    for    gentle    hearts    another 

name 
Would   speak  of    gentler  thoughts  than 

the  world  owns. 
I  have  loved. 

Indian.  And  thou  lovest 

not?  if  so 
Young  as  thou  art  thou  canst  afford  to 

weep. 
Lady.     Oh  !  would  that  I  could  claim 

exemption 
From  all    the    bitterness  of    that    sweet 

name. 
I    loved,   I   love,  and  when    I    love    no 

more 
Let  «joys    and   grief    perish,    and    leave 

despair 
To  ring  the  knell  of  youth.     He  stood 

beside  me, 
The    embodied  vision    of    the    brightest 

dream, 
Which  like  a  dawn  heralds   the  day  of 

life; 
The   shadow  of    his  presence  made  my 

world 
A    paradise.       All     familiar    things     he 

toucht, 
All  common  words  he  spoke,  became  to 

me 
Like    forms    and    sounds    of    a    diviner 

world. 
He  was  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth, 
As  terrible  and  lovely  as  a  tempest; 
He  came,  and  went,  and  left  me  what  I 

am. 
Alas !     Why  must    I   think  how  oft  we 

two 
Have  sat  together  near  the  river  springs, 
Under    the    green     pavilion    which     the 

willow 
Spreads  on    the  floor    of    the    unbroken 

fountain, 
Strewn  by  the  nurslings  that  linger  there, 
Over    that    islet    paved  with  flowers  and 

moss, 


While  the  musk-rose  leaves,  like  flakes 
of  crimson  snow, 

Showered  on  us,  and  the  dove  mourned 
in  the  pine, 

Sad  prophetess  of  sorrows  not  her  own? 

The    crane    returned    to    her    unfrozen 
haunt, 

And  the   false  cuckoo  bade   the  Spring 
good  morn; 

And    on    a    wintry  bough   the  widowed 
bird, 

Hid  in  the  deepest  night  of  ivy-leaves, 

Renewed  the   vigils  of    a   sleepless  sor- 
row. 

I,  left  like  her,  and  leaving  one  like  her, 

Alike  abandoned  and  abandoning 

(Oh!  unlike  her  in   this!)    the  gentlest 
youth, 

Whose  love  had  made  my  sorrows  dear 
to  him, 

Even   as  my    sorrow  made    his    love  to 
me  ! 
Indian.     One  curse  of  Nature  stamps 
in  the  same  mould 

The  features  of  the  wretched;   and  they 
are 

As  like  as  violet  to  violet, 

When   memory,   the    ghost,   their    odors 
keeps 
i  Mid  the  cold  relics  of  abandoned  joy. — 
I  Proceed. 

Lady.  He  was  a  simple  inno- 

cent boy. 
j  I  loved  him  well,  but  not  as  he  desired; 
\  Yet  even  thus  he  was  content  to  be :  — 
i  A  short  content,  for  I  was  — 

Indian  [aside],  God  of  heaven! 

From     such    an    islet,     such     a    river- 
spring  !  — 

I  dare  not  ask  her  if  there  stood  upon  it 

A  pleasure-dome  surmounted  by  a  cres- 
cent, 

With  steps  to  the  blue  water.      [Aloud.'] 
It  may  be 

That  Nature  masks  in  life  several  copies 

Of  the  same  lot,  so  that  the  sufferers 

May  feel  another's  sorrow  as  their  own, 

And  find  in  friendship  what  they  lost  in 
love. 

That   cannot   be:    yet   it   is  strange  that 
we, 

From  the  seme  scene,  by  the  same  path 
to  this 


FRAGMENTS   OF  AN  UNFINISHED   DRAMA. 


459 


Realm  of  abandonment —     But  speak! 

your  breath  — 
Your    breath    is    like    soft    music,    your 

words  are 
The    echoes    of    a   voice    which    on    my 

heart 
Sleeps  like  a  melody  of  early  days. 
But  as  you  said  — 

Lady.  He  was  so  awful,  yet 

So  beautiful  in  mystery  and  terror, 
Calming  me  as  the  loveliness  of  heaven 
Soothes  the  unquiet  sea:  — and  yet  not 

so, 
For  he  seemed  stormy,  and  would  often 

seem 
A   quenchless  sun    maskt  in  portentous 

clouds; 
For    such    his    thoughts,    and    even    his 

actions  were; 
But    he  was    not  of  them,   nor    they  of 

him, 
But  as   they  hid  his   splendor  from  the 

earth. 
Some  said   he  was  a  man  of  blood  and 

peril, 
And  steept  in  bitter  infamy  to  the  lips. 
More  need  was  there   I  should  be  inno- 
cent, 
More  need  that  I  should   be  most  true 

and  kind, 
And  much  more  need   that  there  should 

be  found  one 
To    share    remorse    and  scorn  and  soli- 
tude, 
And  all  the  ills  that  wait  on  those  who 

do 
The  tasks  of  ruin  in  the  world  of  life. 
He  fled,  and  I  have  followed  him. 

Indian.  Such  a  one 

Is  he  who  was  the  winter  of  my  peace. 
But,   fairest    stranger,   when   didst    thou 

depart 
From  the  far  hills  where  rise  the  springs 

of   India, 
How    didst    thou    pass    the    intervening 

sea? 
Lady.     If  I  be  sure  I  am  not  dream- 
ing now, 
I  should  not  doubt  to  say  it  was  a  dream. 
Methought  a  star  came  down  from  heaven, 
And  rested  mid  the  plants  of  India, 
Which  I   had   given  a  shelter  from  the 

frost 


Within  my  chamber.     There  the  meteor 

lay, 
Panting    forth    light    among    the    leaves 

and  flowers, 
As    if    it  lived,   and    was   outworn   with 

speed; 
Or  that  it  loved,  and  passion  made  the 

pulse 
Of  its  bright   life  throb  like  an  anxious 

heart, 
Till  it  diffused  itself,  and  all  the  chamber 
And  walks   seemed  melted  into   emerald 

fire 
That  burned  not;    in  the  midst  of  which 

appeared 
A  spirit  like  a  child,  and  laught  aloud 
A  thrilling  peal  of  such  sweet  merriment 
As  made  the   blood  tingle  in  my  warm 

feet: 
Then  bent  over  a  vase,  and  murmuring 
Low,  unintelligible  melodies, 
Placed    something    in    the    mould    like 

melon  seeds, 
And  slowly  faded,  and  in  place  cf  it 
A  soft  hand  issued  from  the  veil  of  fire, 
Holding  a  cup  like  a  magnolia  flower, 
And   poured  upon  the  earth  within  the 

vase 
The  element  with  which  it  overflowed, 
Brighter  than  morning  light,  and  purer 

than 
The  water  of  the  springs  of  Himalah. 
Indian.     You  waked  not? 
Lady.  Not  until  my  dream 

became 
Like    a    child's   legend    on    the    tideless 

sand, 
Which  the  first  foam  erases  half,  and  half 
Leaves  legible.     At   length   I  rose,  and 

went, 
Yisiting  my  flowers  from  pot  to  pot,  and 

thought 
To  set  new  cuttings  in  the  empty  urns, 
And    when    I    came   to    that  beside   the 

lattice, 
I  saw  two  little  dark-green  leaves 
Lifting    the   light  mould  at   their   birth, 

and  then 
I  half-remembered  my  forgotten  dream. 
And   day    by  day,  green  as  a   gourd   in 

June, 
The  plant  grew  fresh  and  thick,  yet  no 

one  knew 


460 


FRAGMENTS   OF  AN   UNFINISHED   DRAMA. 


What  plant  it  was;    its  stem  and  tendrils 

seemed 
Like   emerald   snakes,  mottled   and   dia- 
monded 
With   azure   mail  and  streaks   of   woven 

silver; 
And  all  the  sheaths  that  folded  the  dark 

buds 
Rose  like  the  crest  of  cobra-di-capel, 
Until  the  golden  eye  of  the  bright  flower, 
Through  the  dark  lashes  of  those  veined 

lids, 
Disencumbered  of  their  silent  sleep, 
Gazed  like  a  star  into  the  morning  light. 
Its  leaves  were  delicate,  you  almost  saw 
4ne  pulses 
With  which  the  purple  velvet  flower  was 

fed 
To  overflow,  and  like  a  poet's  heart 
Changing   bright    fancy   to    sweet   senti- 
ment, 
Changed  half  the  light  to  fragrance.     It 

soon  fell, 
And  to  a  green  and  dewy  embryo-fruit 
Left  all  its  treasured  beauty.      Day  by 

day 
I   nurst   the   plant,    and    on    the  double 

flute 
Played  to  it  on  the  sunny  winter  days 
Soft  melodies,  as  sweet  as  April  rain 
On   silent    leaves,  and   sang   those  words 

in  which 
Passion  makes  Echo   taunt   the   sleeping 

strings; 
And  I  would  send  tales  of  forgotten  love 
Late    into  the   lone   night,  and  sing  wild 

songs 
Of  maids  deserted  in  the  olden  time, 
And    weep    like  a  soft  cloud   in   April's. 

bosom 
Upon  the  sleeping  eyelids  of   the  plant, 
So  that  perhaps  it  dreamed  that  Spring 

was  come, 
And  crept  abroad  into  the  moonlight  air, 
And  loosened   all    its   limbs,  as,  noon  by 

noon, 
The  sun  averted  less  his  oblique  beam. 
Indian.      And   the    plant   died   not    in 

the  frost? 
Lady.  It  grew; 

And  went  out  of  the  lattice  which  I  left 
Half  open  for  it,  trailing  its  quaint  spires 
Along  the  garden  and  across  the  lawn, 


And  down  the  slope  of  moss  and  thro1 

the  tufts 
Of  wild-flower  roots,  and  stumps  of  trees 

o'ergrown 
With    simple    lichens,    and    old    hoary 

stones, 
On  to  the  margin  of  the  glassy  pool, 
Even  to  a  nook  of  unblown  violets 
And  lilies-of-the-valley  yet  unborn, 
Under  a  pine  with  ivy  overgrown. 
And   there   its    fruit    lay  like   a  sleeping 

lizard 
Under  the   shadows;    but   when  Spring 

indeed 
Came  to  unswathe  her  infants,  and  the 

lilies 
Peept   from   their  bright   green   masks  to 

wonder  at 
This  shape  of  Autumn  couched  in  their 

recess, 
Then  it  dilated,  and  it  grew  until 
One    half    lay   floating   on  the   fountain 

wave, 
Whose    pulse,    elapst    in    unlike     sym- 
pathies, 
Kept  time 

Among  the  snowy  water-lily  buds. 
Its  shape  was  such  as  Summer  melody 
Of  the  south  wind  in  spicy  vales  might 

give  _ 
To    some    light    cloud    bound    from    the 

golden  dawn 
To  fairy  isles  of   evening,  and  it  seemed 
In    hue    and    form    that   it    had  been    a 

mirror 
Of  all  the  hues  and  forms  around  it  and 
Upon  it  pictured  by  the  sunny  beams 
Which,  from  the  bright  vibrations  of  the 

pool, 
Were  thrown  upon   the   rafters  and  the 

roof 
Of  boughs  and  leaves,  and  on  the  pillared 

stems 
Of   the  dark  sylvan  temple,   and  reflec- 
tions 
Of  every  infant  flower  and  star  of  moss 
And  veined  leaf  in  the  azure  odorous  air. 
And  thus  it  lay  in  the  Elysian  calm 
Of  its  own  beauty,  floating  on  the  line 
Which,    like     a     film     in    purest    space, 

divided 
The  heaven  beneath  the  water  from  the 

heaven 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


461 


Above  the  clouds;  and  every  day  I  went 
Watching  its  growth  and  wondering; 
And  as  the  day  grew  hot,  methought  I 

saw 
A  glassy  vapor  dancing  on  the  pool, 
And  on  it  little  quaint  and  filmy  shapes, 
With  dizzy  motion,  wheel  and  rise  and 

fall, 
Like  clouds  of  gnats  with  perfect  linea- 
ments. 

O  friend,   sleep   was   a   veil  uplift   from 
heaven  — 

As  if  heaven  dawned  upon  the  world  of 
dream  — 

When  darkness  rose  on  the  extinguished 
day 

Out  of  the  eastern  wilderness. 

Indian.  I  too 

Have  found  a  moment's  paradise  in  sleep 

Half  compensate  a  hell  of  waking  sor- 
row. 


CHARLES   THE    FIRST. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONJE. 

King  Charles  I. 

Queen  Henrietta. 

Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wentworth,   Earl  of  Strafford. 

Lord  Cottington. 

Lord  Weston. 

Lord  Coventry. 

Williams,  Bishop  of  Lincoln. 

Secretary  Lyttelton. 

JUXON. 

St.  John. 

Archy,  the  Court  Fool. 

Hampden. 

Pym. 

Cromwell. 

Cromwell's  Daughter. 

Sir   Harry  Vane  ttie  younger. 

Leighton. 

Bastwtck. 

Prynne. 

Gentlemen  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  Citizens,  Pur- 
suivants, Marshalsmen,  Law  Students, 
Judges,   Clerk. 


SCENE  I.  — The  Mask  of  the  Inns 
of  Court. 

A  Pursuivant.     Place,  for  the  Marshal 
of  the  Mask ! 


First  Citizen.     What  thinkest  thou  of 

this  quaint  mask  which  turns, 
Like  morning  from   the  shadow  of   the 

night, 
The    night    to    day,    and    London    to    a 

place 
Of  peace  and  joy? 

Second  Citizen.  And  Hell  to 

Heaven. 
Eight  years  are  gone, 
And  they  seem  hours,  since  in  this  popu- 
lous street 
I  trod  on  grass  made  green  by  summer's 

rain, 
For   the    red    plague    kept    state  within 

that  palace 
Where  now  reigns  vanity.    In  nine  years 

more 
The    roots   will    be    refresht    with    civil 

blood; 
And  thank  the  mercy  of  insulted  Heaven 
That    sin    and    wrongs    wound    as    »\n 

orphan's  cry, 
The  patience  of  the  great  Avenger's  ear. 
A    Youth.     Yet,  father,  't  is  a  happy 

sight  to  see, 
Beautiful,  innocent,  and  unforbidden 
By  God  or  man; — 'tis  like   the  bright 

procession 
Of  skyey  visions  in  a  solemn  dream 
From  which  men  wake  as  from  a  para- 
dise, 
And    draw    new    strength    to    tread    the 

thorns  of  life. 
If  God  be  good,  wherefore  should  this 

be  evil  ? 
And   if  this   be   not  evil,  dost  thou   not 

draw 
Unseasonable  poison  from  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  so  rarely   in    this    barren 

world? 
Oh,    kill    these    bitter    thoughts    which 

make  the  present 
Dark  as  the  future  !  — 


When    Avarice    and    Tyranny,    vigilant 

Fear, 
And  open-eyed  Conspiracy  lie  sleeping 
As  on   Hell's  threshold;    and  all   gentle 

thoughts 
Waken    to    worship    Him    whc   giveth 

joys 
With  his  own  gift. 


46: 


CHARLES    THE  FIRST. 


Second  Citizen.     How  young  art  thou 

in  this  old  age  of  time  ! 
How  green  in  this  gray  world !     Canst 

thou  discern 
The   signs   of    seasons,  yet   perceive   no 

hint 
Of  change  in  that  stage-scene  in  which 

thou  art 
Not  a  spectator  but  an  actor?  or 
Art  thou  a  puppet  moved  by  [enginery]? 
The   day  that  dawns   in  fire  will   die  in 

storms, 
Even    tho'     the    noon    be    calm.      My 

travel  's  done,  — 
Before  the  whirlwind  wakes  I  shall  have 

found 
My  inn   of  lasting  rest;   but  thou   must 

still 
Be  journeying  on  in  this  inclement  air. 
Wrap  thy  old  cloak  about  thy  back; 
Nor  leave  the  broad  and  plain  and  beaten 

road, 
Altho'  no  flowers  smile  on  the  trodden 

dust, 
For  the   violet  paths  of  pleasure.     This 

Charles  the  First 
Rose  like  the  equinoctial  sun,  .    .   . 
By     vapors,     thro'     whose     threatening 

ominous  veil 
Darting    his    altered    influence    he    has 

gained 
This    height    of    noon  —  from  which   he 

must  decline 
Amid  the  darkness  of  conflicting  storms, 
To     dank     extinction     and      to      latest 

night   .   .  . 
There    goes   the  apostate  Strafford;     he 

whose  titles 

whispered  aphorisms 
From    Machiavel    and    Bacon:     and,    if 

Judas 
Had  been  as  brazen  and  as  bold  as  he  — 
First  Citizen.     That  is  the  Archbishop. 
Second  Citizen.  Rather    say    the 

Pope: 
Jyondon  will  be  soon  his  Rome:   he  walks 
As  if  he  trod  upon  the  heads  of  men : 
He  looks  elate,  drunken  with  blood  and 

gold;- 
Beside  him  moves  the  Babylonian  woman 
Invisibly,     and     with     her     as    with     his 

shadow, 
Mitred  adulterer  !   he  is  joined  in  sin, 


Which  turns  Heaven's  milk  of  mercy  to 
revenge. 

Third  Citizen  {lifting  up  his  eyes). 

Good  Lord  !  rain  it  down  upon  him  !  .  .  . 
Amid  her  ladies  walks  the  papist  queen, 
As  if  her  nice   feet  scorned  our  English 

earth. 
The  Canaanitish  Jezebel !     I  would  be 
A  dog  if  I  might  tear  her  with  my  teeth  ! 
There  's  old  Sir  Flenry  Vane,  the  Earl  of 

Pembroke, 
Lord  Essex,  and  Lord  Keeper  Coventry, 
And  others  who  make  base  their  English 

breed 
By  vile  participation  of  their  honors 
With  papists,  atheists,  tyrants,  and  apos- 
tates. 
When  lawyers  mask  'tis  time  for   honest 

men 
To  strip  the  vizor  from  their  purposes. 
A  seasonable  time  for  maskers  this  ! 
When  Englishmen  and  Protestants  should 

sit 

dust  on  their  dishonored  heads, 
To  avert  the  wrath  of  him  whose  scourge 

is  felt 
For   the    great    sins   which    have    drawn 

down  from  Heaven 

and  foreign  overthrow. 
The   remnant  of    the  martyred  saints  in 

Rochefort 
Have  been   abandoned  by  their  faithless 

allies 
To  that  idolatrous  and  adulterous  torturer 
Lewis    of    France,  —  the     Palatinate    is 

lost  — 

Enter  Leighton  (who  has  been  branded 
in  the  face)  and  BASTWICK. 

Canst  thou  be  —  art  thou  — ? 

Leighton.  I  was  Leighton  :   what 

I  am    thou    seest.     And   yet    turn  thine 
eyes, 

And  with  thy  memory  look  on  thy  friend's 
mind, 

Which   is   unchanged,  and  where  is  writ- 
ten deep 

The  sentence  of  my  judge. 

Third  Citizen.  Are  these  the 

marks  with  which 

Laud  thinks  to  improve  the  image  of  his 
Maker 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


463 


Stampt    on    the    face  of    man?      Curses 

upon  him, 
The  impious  tyrant ! 

Second  Citizen.  It  is  said  besides 

That    lewd    and   papist    drunkards    may 

profane 
The  Sabbath  with  their  .   .   . 
And  has  permitted  that  most   heathenish 

custom 
Of  dancing  round  a  pole  drest  up  with 

wreaths 
On  May-day. 

A  man  who  thus  twice  crucifies  his  God 
May  well  his   brother.  —  In  my 

mind,  friend, 
The  root  of  all  this  ill  is  prelacy. 
I  would  cut  up  the  root. 

Third  Citizen.  And   by   what 

means  ? 
Second  Citizen.      Smiting  each  Bishop 

under  the  fifth  rib. 
Third  Citizen.         You  seem  to  know 

the  vulnerable  place 
Of  these  same  crocodiles. 

Second  Citizen.  I  learnt  it  in 

Egyptian   bondage,    sir.     Your  worm  of 

Nile 
Betrays  not  with  its  flattering  tears  like 

they; 
For,  when  they  cannot   kill,  they  whine 

and  weep. 
Nor  is  it  half  so  greedy  of  men's  bodies 
As   they   of    soul    and   all;     nor   does   it 

wallow 
In  slime  as  they  in  simony  and  lies 
And  close  lusts  of  the  flesh. 

A  Marshals/nan.  Give  place,  give 

place  ! 
You  torch-bearers,  advance  to  the  great 

gate, 
And    then   attend   the    Marshal    of    the 

Mask 
Into  the  royal  presence. 

A  Law  Student.  What  thinkest 

thou 
Of    this  quaint    show  of  ours,    my  aged 

friend? 
Even    now   we  see    the    redness   of    the 

torches 
Inflame    the    night  to  the   eastward,   and 

the  clarions 
Gasp    to    us    on    the    wind's    wave.      It 


And  their  sounds,   floating  hither  round 

the  pageant, 
Rouse  up  the  astonished  air. 

First  Citizen.      I    will    not    think    but 
that  our  country's  wounds 
May  yet    be    healed.     The   king    is  just 

and  gracious, 
Tho'    wicked  counsels  now  pervert    his 

will: 
These  once  cast  off  — 

Second  Citizen.  As  adders  cast 

their  skins 
!  And   keep   their   venom,   so  kings  often 
change; 
Councils    and    counsellors  hang   on    one 

another, 
Hiding  the  loathsome   .   .   . 
Like    the   base    patchwork    of    a  leper's 
rags. 
The   Youth.     O,   still   those    dissonant 
thoughts  !  —  List  how  the  music 
Grows  on  the  enchanted   air  !     And  see, 

the  torches 
Restlessly    flashing,    and    the   crowd   di- 
vided 
Like  waves  before  an  admiral's  prow ! 

A  Marshalsman.  Give  place 

To  the  Marshal  of  the  Mask  ! 

A  Pursuivant.  Room  for 

the  King ! 
The  Youth.         How   glorious!       See 
those  thronging  chariots 
Rolling,  like   painted  clouds  before  the 

wind, 
Behind  their  solemn  steeds:  how  some 

are  shaped 
Like    curved    shells    dyed  by  the    azure 

depths 
Of  Indian  seas;   some  like  the  new-born 

moon; 
And  some  like  cars  in  which  the  Romans 

climbed 
(Canopied  by  Victory's  eagle-wings  out- 
spread) 
j  The  Capitolian  !  —  See  how  gloriously 
\  The  mettled  horses  in  the  torchlight  stir 
j  Their    gallant    riders,  while    they   check 

their  pride, 
;  Like  shapes  of  some  diviner  element 
Than  English  air,  and  beings  nobler  than 
j  The  envious  and  admiring  multitude. 

Second  Citizen.     Ay,  there  they  are  — 
j   Nobles,  and  sons  of  nobles,  patentees, 


464 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST, 


Monopolists,  and  stewards  of  this  poor 

farm, 
On  whose   lean   sheep  sit  the  prophetic 

crows. 
Here  is  the  pomp  that  strips  the   house- 
less orphan, 
Here  is  the  pride  that  breaks  the  desolate 

heart. 
These  are  the  lilies  glorious  as  Solomon, 
Who  toil  not,  neither  do   they  spin,  — 

unless 
It  be  the  webs  they  catch  poor  rogues 

withal. 
Here  is  the  surfeit  which  to   them  who 

earn 
The  niggard  wages  of  the   earth,  scarce 

leaves 
The  tithe  that  will  support  them  till  they 

crawl 
Back  to  her  cold  hard  bosom.     Here  is 

health 
Followed     by    grim     disease,     glory    by 

shame, 
Waste  by  lame  famine,  wealth  by  squalid 

want, 
And  England's  sin  by  England's  punish- 
ment. 
And,    as    the    effect    pursues    the    cause 

foregone, 
Lo,   giving  substance  to  my  words,  be- 
hold 
At  once  the  sign  and  the  thing  signified  — 
A  troop  of  cripples,  beggars,   and  lean 

outcasts, 
Horst  upon  stumbling  jades,  carted  with 

dung, 
Dragged  for  a  day  from  cellars   and  low 

cabins 
And   rotten    hiding-holes,    to    point    the 

moral 
Of  this  presentment,  and  bring  up   the 

rear 
Of   painted  pomp  with  misery  ! 

The  Youth.  'T  is  but 

The  anti-mask,   and  serves  as    discords 

do 
In    sweetest    music.      Who    would    love 

May  flowers 
If  they  succeeded  not  to  Winter's  flaw; 
Or  day  unchanged  by  night;  or  joy  itself 
Without  the  touch  of  sorrow? 

Second  Citizen.  1  and  thou  — 

A  Marshalsman.     Place,  give  place! 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Chamber  in  White- 
hall. Enter  the  King,  Queen, 
Laud,  Lord  Strafford,  Lord  Cot- 
tington,  and  other  Lords  ;  Archy  ; 
also  St.  John,  with  some  Gentlemen  of 
the  Inns  of  Court. 

King.     Thanks,  gentlemen.     I  heart- 
ily accept 

This  token    of    your  service :    your    gay 
mask 

Was  performed  gallantly.     And  it  shows 
well 

When  subjects  twine  such  flowers  of  ob- 
servance 

With  the  sharp  thorns  that  deck  the  Eng- 
lish crown. 

A  gentle  heart  enjoys  what  it  confers, 

Even. as  it  suffers  that  which  it  inflicts, 

Tho'  Justice  guides  the  stroke. 

Accept  my  hearty  thanks. 

Queen.  And,  gentlemen, 

Call     your     poor     Queen     your     debtor. 
Your  quaint  pageant 

Rose  on  me  like  the  figures  of  past  years, 

Treading  their  still  path  back  to  infancy, 

More   beautiful   and   mild   as   they  draw 
nearer 

The  quiet  cradle.      I  could   have   almost 
wept 

To  think  I  was  in    Paris,    where    these 
shows 

Are  well  devised  —  such  as  I  was  ere  yet 

My  young  heart  shared  a  portion  of  the 
burden, 

The   careful  weight,  of    this  great   mon- 
archy. 

There,    gentlemen,    between    the     sove- 
reign's pleasure 

And  that  which  it    regards,    no    clamor 
lifts 

Its  proud  interposition. 

In  Paris  ribald  censurers  dare  not  move 

Their   poisonous    tongues    against    these 
sinless  sports; 

And  his  smile 

Warms   those   who   bask   in   it,    as    ours 
would  do 

If'.    .    .   Take   my  heart's    thanks:     add 
them,  gentlemen, 

To   those   good    words   which,    were   he 
King  of  France, 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


465 


My    royal    lord    would    turn    to    golden 
deeds. 

St.  John.     Madam,  the  love  of  Eng- 
lishmen can  make 
The  lightest  favor  of  their  lawful  king 
Outweigh  a  despot's.  — We  humbly  take 

our  leaves, 
Enricht    by    smiles    which    France    can 
never  buy. 
[Exeunt  St.  JOHN   and  the   Gentle- 
men of  the  Inns  of  Court. 

King.     My  Lord  Archbishop, 
Mark  you  what  spirit  sits  in  St.  John's 

eyes  ? 
Methinksitis  too  saucy  for  this  presence. 

Arch}>.  Yes,  pray  your  Grace  look: 
for,  like  an  unsophisticated  [eye]  sees 
everything  upside  down,  you  who  are 
wise  will  discern  the  shadow  of  an  idiot 
in  lawn  sleeves  and  a  rochet  setting 
springes  to  catch  woodcocks  in  hay-mak- 
ing time.  Poor  Archy,  whose  owl-eyes 
are  tempered  to  the  error  of  his  age,  and 
because  he  is  a  fool,  and  by  special  or- 
dinance of  God  forbidden  ever  to  see 
himself  as  he  is,  sees  now  in  that  deep 
eye  a  blindfold  devil  sitting  on  the  ball, 
and  weighing  words  out  between  king 
and  subjects.  One  scale  is  full  of  prom- 
ises, and  the  other  full  of  protestations: 
and  then  another  devil  creeps  behind  the 
first  out  of  the  dark  windings  [of  a] 
pregnant  lawyer's  brain,  and  takes  the 
bandage  from  the  other's  eyes,  and  throws 
a  sword  into  the  left-hand  scale,  for  all 
the  world  like  my  Lord  Essex's  there. 

Strafford.  A  rod  in  pickle  for  the 
Fool's  back  ! 

Archy.  Ay,  and  some  are  now  smil- 
ing whose  tears  will  make  the  brine;  for 
the  Fool  sees  — 

Strafford.  Insolent  !  You  shall  have 
your  coat  turned  and  be  whipt  out  of  the 
palace  for  this. 

Archy.  When  all  the  fools  are 
whipt,  and  all  the  Protestant  writers, 
while  the  knaves  are  whipping  the  fools 
ever  since  a  thief  was  set  to  catch  a  thief. 
If  all  turncoats  were  whipt  out  of  pal- 
aces, poor  Archy  would  be  disgraced  in 
good  company.  Let  the  knaves  whip  the 
fools,  and  all  the  fools  laugh  at  it.  [Let 
the]   wise   and  goodly  slit  each  other's 


noses  and  ears  (having  no  need  of  an]1 
sense  of  discernment  in  their  craft);  ana 
the  knaves,  to   marshal    them,    join    in  a 
procession  to  Bedlam,  to  entreat  the  mad- 
men to  omit  their  sublime  Platonic  con- 
templations,   and    manage    the    state    of 
England.      Let  all   the  honest  men  who 
lie  pinched  up  at  the  prisons  or  the  pillo- 
ries, in  custody  of  the  pursuivants  of  the 
Iligh-Commiss-ion  Court,  marshal  them. 
Enter  Secretary  Lyttelton,  %^ith 
papers. 
King  ( looking  over  the  papers  ) .       These 

stiff   Scots 
His  Grace  of  Canterbury  must  take  order 
To   force  under    the    Church's    yoke.  — 

You,  Went  worth, 
Shall  be  myself  in  Ireland,  and  shall  add 
Your  wisdom,  gentleness,  and  energy, 
To    what    in    me    were    wanting.  —  My 

Lord  Weston, 
Look    that    those    merchants     draw    not 

without  loss 
Their  bullion  from  the  Tower;  and,  on 

the  payment 
Of  shipmoney,  take  fullest  compensation 
For  violation  of  our  royal  forests, 
Whose   limits,  from   neglect,   have  been 

o'ergrown 
With  cottages  and   cornfields.     The   ut- 
termost 
Farthing  exact  from  those  who  claim  ex- 
emption 
From  knighthood:   that  which  once  was 

a  reward 
Shall  thus  be  made  a  punishment,  that 

subjects 
May  know  how  majesty  can  wear  at  will 
The  rugged  mood.  —  My  Lord  of  Cov- 
entry, 
Lay  my  command  upon  the  Courts  below 
That  bail  be   not   accepted   for  the  pris- 
oners 
Under  the  warrant  of  the  Star  Chamber. 
The  people  shall  not  find   the  stubborn- 
ness 
Of  Parliament  a  cheap  or  easy  method 
Of  dealing  with  their  rightful  sovereign: 
And  doubt  not  this,  my  Lord  of  Coven- 
try, 
We  will  find  time  and  place  for  fit  re- 

buke.— 
My  Lord  of  Canterbury. 


466 


CHARLES   THE  FIRST. 


Archy.  The  fool  is  here. 

Laud.     I    crave    permission    of    your 

Majesty 
To  order  that  this  insolent  fellow  be 
Chastised:   he   mocks  the  sacred  charac- 
ter, 
Scoffs  at  the  state,  and  — 

King.  What,  my  Archy? 

He  mocks  and  mimics  all  he  sees  and 

hears, 
Yet  with  a  quaint  and  graceful  license  — 

Prithee 
For  this  once  do  not  as  Prynne  would, 

were  he 
Primate  of  England.    With  your  Grace's 

leave, 
He  lives  in  his  own  world;    and,  like  a 

parrot 
Hung    in    his   gilded    prison    from    the 

window 
Of  a  queen's  bower  over  the  public  way, 
Blasphemes   with  a  bird's    mind: — his 

words,  like  arrows 
Which  know  no  aim  beyond  the  archer's 

wit, 
Strike    sometimes    what   eludes    philos- 
ophy. — 
{To  Archy.)  Go,  sirrah,  and  repent  of 

your  offence 
Ten    minutes    in    the    rain:    be    it    your 

penance 

To  bring  news  how  the  world  goes  there. 

[Exit  Archy. 

Poor  Archy  ! 

He    weaves    about    himself    a  world    of 

mirth 
Out  of  the  wreck  of  ours. 

Laud.     I   take  with  patience,   as  my 

Master  did, 
All  scoffs  permitted  from  above. 

King.  My  lord, 

Pray    overlook    these    papers.       Archy's 

words 
Had  wings,  but  these  have  talons. 

Queen.  And  the  lion 

That  wears  them  must  be   tamed.     My 

dearest  lord, 
I  see  the  new-born  courage  in  your  eye 
Armed  to  strike    dead   the   spirit   of  the 

time, 
Which   spurs   to  rage  the  many-headed 

beast. 
Do  thou  persist:  'or,  faint  but  in  resolve, 


And  it  were   better  thou  hadst  still  re- 
mained 
The  slave  of  thine  own  slaves,  who  tear 

like  curs 
The  fugitive,  and  flee  from  the  pursuer; 
And  Opportunity,  that  empty  wolf, 
Flies  at  his   throat  who  falls.     Subdue 

thy  actions 
Even  to  the  disposition  of  thy  purpose, 
And    be    that    tempered    as    the    Ebro's 

steel; 
And    banish    weak-eyed    Mercy    to    the 

weak, 
Whence  she  will  greet  thee  with  a  gift 

of  peace, 
And  not  betray  thee  with  a  traitor's  kiss, 
As    when    she    keeps    the    company    of 

rebels, 
Who  think  that  she  is  Fear.     This   do, 

lest  we 
Should  fall  as  from  a  glorious  pinnacle 
In  a  bright  dream,  and  wake  as  from  a 

dream 
Out  of  our  worshipt  state. 

King.  Beloved  friend, 

God   is   my  witness   that   this  weight   of 

power, 
Which  he    sets   me   my   earthly  task  to 

wield 
Under  his  law,  is  my  delight  and  pride 
Only  because  thou  lovest  that  and  me. 
For  a  king  bears  the  office  of  a  God 
To  all  the  under  world;    and  to  his  God 
Alone  he  must  deliver  up  his  trust, 
Unshorn  of  its  permitted  attributes. 
[It  seems]  now  as  the  baser  elements 
Had  mutinied  against  the  golden  sun 
That    kindles    them    to    harmony,    and 

quells 
Their  self-destroying  rapine.     The  wild 

million 
Strike  at  the  eye  that  guides  them;  like 

as  humors 
Of  the  distempered  body  that  conspire 
Against  the  spirit  of  life  throned  in  the 

heart,  — 
And  thus  become  the  prey  of  one  another, 
And  last  of  death  — 

Strafford.     That  which  would  be  am- 
bition in  a  subject 
Is  duty  in  a  sovereign:    for  on  him, 
As   on   a   keystone,  hangs    the    arch    of 

life, 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


467 


Whose   safety  is  its  strength.      Degree 

and  form, 
And  all  that  makes  the  age  of  reasoning 

man 
More  memorable  than  a  beast's,  depend 
On  this  —  that  Right  should  fence  itself 

inviolably 
With  power;    in  which  respect  the  state 

of  England 
From  usurpation  by  the  insolent  commons 
Cries  for  reform. 
Get   treason,  and  spare   treasure.      Fee 

with  coin 
The  loudest  murmurers;    feed  with  jeal- 
ousies 
Opposing  factions,  — be  thyself  of  none; 
And    borrow   gold    of    many,    for   those 

who  lend 
Will  serve  thee   till  thou  payest   them; 

and  thus 
Keep  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  hour  at  bay, 
Till  time,  and  its  coming  generations 
Of  nights  and  days  unborn,  bring  some 

one  chance, 

Or  war,  or  pestilence,  or  Nature's  self, 
By  some  distemperature  or  terrible  sign, 
Be  as  an  arbiter  betwixt  themselves. 

Nor  let  your  Majesty 
Doubt  here  the  peril  of  the  unseen  event. 
How  did  your  brother  kings,  coheritors 
In  your  high  interest  in  the  subject  earth, 
Rise  past  such  troubles  to  that  height  of 

power 
Where  now  they  sit,  and  awfully  serene 
Smile    on  the  trembling    world?      Such 

popular  storms 
Philip  the  Second  of  Spain,  this   Lewis 

of  France, 
And    late    the    German    head    of    many 

bodies, 
And  every  petty  lord  of  Italy, 
Quelled  or  by  arts  or  arms.     Is  England 

poorer 
Or  feebler?  or  art  thou  who  wield'st  her 

power 
Tamer   than   they?    or   shall   this   island 

be  — 
[Girdled]  by  its  inviolable  waters  — 
To  the  world  present   and   the  world   to 

come 
Sole  pattern  of  extinguisht  monarchy? 
Not  if  thou  dost  as  I  would  have  thee  do. 


King.     Your  words  shall  be  my  deeds : 

You    speak    the    image  of    my  thought. 
My  friend 

(If  kings  can  have  a  friend,  I  call  thee 
so), 

Beyond  the  large  commission  which  be- 
longs 

Under  the  great  seal  of  the  realm,  take 
this: 

And,  for  some  obvious  reasons,  let  there 
be 

No  seal  on  it,  except  my  kingly  word 

And  honor  as  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Be  —  as   thou   art  within   my  heart   and 
mind  — 

Another  self,  here  and  in  Ireland: 

Do  what  thou  judgest  well,  take  amplest 
license, 

And    stick    not     even    at    questionable 
means. 

Hear  me,  Wentworth.     My  word  is  as  a 
wall 

Between    thee    and     this    world    thine 
enemy  — 

That  hates  thee,  for  thou  lovest  me. 

Strafford.  I  own 

No  friend  but  thee,  no  enemies  but  thine : 

Thy  lightest  thought  is  my  eternal  law. 

How  weak,  how  short,  is  life  to  pay  — 
King.  Peace,  peace ! 

Thou  ow'st  me  nothing  yet. 

(  To  Laud.)  My  lord,  what  say 

Those  papers? 

Laud.     Your  Majesty  has  ever  inter- 
posed, 

In  lenity  towards  your  native  soil, 

Between    the    heavy    vengeance    of   the 
Church 

And   Scotland.     Mark  the   consequence 
of  warming 

This   brood   of  northern   vipers   in  your 
bosom. 

The  rabble,  instructed  no  doubt 

By   Loudon,   Lindsay,  Hume,  and  false 
Argyll 

(For    the  waves    never   menace  heaven 
until 

Scourged    by    the    wind's   invisible  tyr- 
anny), 

Have  in  the  very  temple  of  the  Lord 

Done  outrage  to  his  chosen  ministers. 

They    scorn    the    liturgy    of    the    holy 
Church, 


468 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


Refuse  to  obey  her  canons,  and  deny 
The    apostolic    power    with    which    the 

Spirit 
Has  filled  its  elect  vessels,  even  from  him 
Who  held  the  keys  with  power  to  loose 

and  bind, 
To  him   who   now  pleads   in  this   royal 

presence. — 
Let  ampler  powers  and  new  instructions 

be 
Sent    to    the    High    Commissioners    in 

Scotland. 
To   death,   imprisonment,   and   confisca- 
tion, 
Add  torture,  add  the  ruin  of  the  kindred 
Of  the   offender,   add  the   brand  of    in- 
famy, 
Add  mutilation:    and  if  this  suffice  not, 
Unleash  the  sword  and  fire,  and  in  their 

{hirst 
They  may  lick  up   that   scum   of   schis- 
matics. 
I   laugh  at  those  weak  rebels  who,  de- 
siring 
What  we  possess,  still  prate  of  Christian 

peace, 
As  if  those  dreadful  arbitrating  messen- 
gers 
Which  play  the  part  of  God  'twixt  right 

and  wrong, 
Should  be  let  loose  against  the  innocent 

sleep 
Of  templed  cities  and  the  smiling  fields, 
For  some  poor  argument  of  policy 
Which   touches    our    own    profit    or   our 

pride, 
(Where  it  indeed  were  Christian  charity 
To  turn   the   cheek  even  to  the  smiter's 

hand : ) 
And,   when  our  great   Redeemer,   when 

our  God, 
When   he   who  gave,  accepted,   and  re- 
tained, 
Himself  in  propitiation  of  our  sins, 
Is  scorned  in  his  immediate  ministry, 
With  hazard  of  the  inestimable  loss 
Of   all  the  truth  and  discipline  which  is 
Salvation  to  the  extremest  generation 
Of  men  innumerable,  they  talk  of  peace  ! 
Such   peace  as  Canaan  found,  let    Scot- 
land now : 
For,  by  that  Christ  who  came  to  bring  a 
sword, 


Not    peace,   upon    the    earth,   and    gave 
command 

To  his  disciples  at  the  passover 

That  each  should  sell  his  robe  and  buy  a 
sword,  — 

Once  strip  that  minister  of  naked  wrath, 

And  it  shall  never  sleep  in  peace  again 

Till  Scotland  bend  or  break. 

King.  My  Lord  Arch- 

bishop, 

Do  what  thou  wilt  and  what  thou  canst 
in  this. 

Thy  earthly  even  as  thy  heavenly  King 

Gives    thee   large    power  in    his  unquiet 
realm. 

But  we  want  money,  and  my  mind  mis- 
gives me 

That  for  so  great  an  enterprise,  as  yet, 

We  are  unfurnisht. 

Strafford.  Yet  it  may  not 

long 

Rest  on  our  wills. 

Cottington.  The  expenses 

Of    gathering    shipmoney,    and    of    dis- 
training 

For  every  petty  rate  (for  we  encounter 

A  desperate  opposition  inch  by  inch 

In  every  warehouse  and  on  every  farm) 

Have    swallowed    up    the    gross  sum  of 
the  imposts; 

So   that,    tho'    felt    as    a    most    grievous 
scourge 

Upon  the   land,  they  stand   us  in  small 
stead 

As  touches  the  receipt. 

Strafford.  'T  is  a  conclu- 

sion 

Most  arithmetical :    and  thence  you  infer 

Perhaps  the  assembling  of  a  parliament. 

Now,   if   a   man   should   call    his  dearest 
enemies 

To  sit  in  licensed  judgment  on  his  life, 

His     Majesty    might     wisely     take     that 
course. 

[Aside  to  Cottington. 

It   is   enough   to   expect   from  these  lean 
imposts 

That  they  perform  the  office  of  a  scourge, 

Without   more  profit.      {Aloud.)      Fines 
and  confiscations, 

And   a    forced   loan   from  the  refractory 
city, 

Will  fill  our  coffers:  and  the  golden  love 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


469 


Of  loyal  gentlemen  and  noble  friends 
For    the    worshipt    father  of    our    com- 
mon country, 
With  contributions  from  the  Catholics, 
Will  make  Rebellion  pale  in  our  excess. 
Be  these   the  expedients  until  time  and 

wisdom 
Shall   frame  a  settled    state   of   govern- 
ment. 
Laud.      And  weak  expedients    they  ! 

Have  we  not  drained 
All,  till  the  which  seemed 

A  mine  exhaustless? 

Strafford.  And  the   love 

which  is, 
If  loyal  hearts  could  turn  their  blood  to 

gold. 
L.aud.     Both   now  grow  barren:    and 

I  speak  it  not 
As    loving    parliaments,   which,   as   they 

have  been 
In  the   right    hand   of  bold   bad  mighty 

kings 
The  scourges  of  the  bleeding  Church,  I 

hate. 
Methinks  they  scarcely  can  deserve  our 

fear. 
Strafford.      Oh !    my  dear    liege,   take 

back  the  wealth  thou  gavest : 
With    that,    take   all    I    held,    but    as   in 

trust 
For    thee,    of    mine    inheritance :    leave 

me  but 
This  unprovided  body  for  thy  service, 
And  a  mind  dedicated  to  no  care 
Except  thy  safety:  — but  assemble  not 
A    parliament.       Hundreds    will     bring, 

like  me. 
Their  fortunes,  as  they  would  their  blood, 

before  — 
King.     No !    thou   who  judgest   them 

art  but  one.      Alas  ! 
We  should  be  too  much  out  of  love  with 

Heaven, 
Did  this  vile   world   show  many  such   as 

thee, 
Thou  perfect,  just,  and  honorable  man  ! 
Never  shall    it    be    said    that    Charles  of 

England 
Stript  those  he  loved  for  fear  of  those  he 

scorns; 
Nor  will  he  so  much  misbecome  his  throne 
As  to  imDOverish  those  who  most  adorn 


And  best  defend  it.     That  you  urge,  dear 

Strafford, 
Inclines  me  rather  — 

Queen.  To   a    parlia- 

ment? 
Is  this  thy  firmness?  and  thou  wilt  pre- 
side 
Over  a  knot  of  qensurers, 

To  the  unswearing  of  thy  best  resolves, 
And   choose   the  worst,  when   the  worst 

comes  too  soon? 
Plight    not    the  worst   before    the  worst 

must  come. 
Oh,  wilt  thou  smile  whilst  our  ribald  foes, 
Drest  in  their  own  usurpt  authority, 
Sharpen    their    tongues    on    Henrietta's 

fame  ? 
It  is  enough  !     Thou  lovest  me  no  more  ! 

[  Weeps. 
King.     Oh,  Henrietta ! 

[  They  talk  apart. 
Cottington  (to  Laud).  Money  we 

have  none : 
And   all   the   expedients  of   my  Lord  of 

Strafford 
Will  scarcely  meet  the  arrears. 

Laud.  Without 

delay 
An  army  must  be  sent  into  the  north; 
Followed  by  a  Commission  of  the  Church, 
With    amplest    power   to  quench  in   fire 

and  blood, 
And  tears  and  terror,  and  the  pity  of  hell, 
The  intenser  wrath  of  Heresy.      God  will 

give 
Victory;    and  victory  over  Scotland  give 
The  lion  England  tamed  into  our  hands. 
That  will  lend  power,  and   power  bring 

gold. 
Cottington.  Meanwhile 

We   must  begin   first  where   your  Grace 

leaves  off. 
Gold  must  give  power,  or  — 

Laud.  I  am  not  averse 

From  the  assembling  of  a  parliament. 
Strong  actions  and  smooth  words  might 

teach  them  soon 
The  lesson  to  obey.      And  are  they  not 
A   bubble    fashioned    by   the    monarch's 

mouth, 
The  birth  of  one  light  breath?     If  the) 

serve  no  purpose, 
A  word  dissolves  them. 


47° 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


Strafford.  The  engine  of  parlia- 

ments 
Might  be  deferred  until  I  can  bring  over 
The  Irish   regiments :    they  will  serve  to 

assure 
Ti*2  issue  of  the  war  against  the  Scots. 
Ano,  this  game  won  —  which  if  lost,  all 

is  lost  — 

Gather  these  chosen  leaders  of  the  rebels, 

And  call  them,  if  you  will,  a  parliament. 

King.         Oh,  be  our  feet  still  tardy  to 

shed  blood, 

Guilty    tho'  it  may    be !     I    would    still 

spare 
The   stubborn   country  of  my  birth,  and 

ward 
'Trom    countenances    which    I    loved    in 

youth 
The  wrathful  Church's  lacerating  hand. 
(7^  Laud).     Have  you  o'erlookt  the 
other  articles? 

[Re-enter  Arch  v. 

Laud.        Hazlerig,     Hampden,    Pym, 

young  Harry  Vane, 

Cromwell,  and  other  rebels  of  less  note, 

Intend    to    sail   with    the    next    favoring 

wind 
For  the  Plantations. 

Archy.  Where  they  think  to  found 

A  commonwealth  like   Gonzalo's  in  the 

play, 
Gynaecoccenic  and  pantisocratic. 
King.     What's  that,  sirrah? 
Archy.  New  devil's  politics. 

Hell  is  the  pattern  of  all  commonwealths : 
Lucifer  was  the  first  republican. 
Will  you  hear    Merlin's   prophecy,  how 
three  posts 
"In    one    brainless    skull,    when    the 

whitethorn  is  full, 
Shall   sail  round  the   world,  and  come 

back  again : 
Shall  sail  round  the  world  in  a  brain- 
less skull, 
And  come  back  again  when  the  moon 
is  at  full:  "  — 
When,  in  spite  of  the  Church, 
They    will     hear    homilies    of     whatever 

length 
Or  form  they  please. 

Cottington.      So  please  your  Majesty  to 
sign  this  order 
For  their  detention. 


Archy.  If  your  Majesty  were  tor- 
mented night  and  day  by  fever,  gout, 
rheumatism,  and  stone,  and  asthma,  etc., 
and  you  found  these  diseases  had  secretly 
entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  abandon  you, 
should  you  think  it  necessary  to  lay  an 
embargo  on  the  port  by  which  they  meant 
to  dispeople  your  unquiet  kingdom  of 
man? 

King.     If  fear  were  made    for  kings, 
the  Fool  mocks  wisely; 
But  in  this  case  ■ —  {writing).     Here,  my 

lord,  take  the  warrant, 
And  see  it  duly  executed  forthwith.  — 
That  imp  of  malice  and  mockery  shall  be 
punisht. 

[Exeunt  all  but  King,   Queen, 
and  Archy. 

Archy.  Ay,  I  am  the  physician  of 
whom  Plato  prophesied,  who  was  to  be 
accused  by  the  confectioner  before  a  jury 
of  children,  who  found  him  guilty  with- 
out waiting  for  the  summing-up,  and 
hanged  him  without  benefit  of  clergy. 
Thus  Baby  Charles,  and  the  Twelfth- 
night  Queen  of  Hearts,  and  the  over- 
grown schoolboy  Cottington,  and  that 
little  urchin  Laud  —  who  would  reduce  a 
verdict  of  "guilty,  death,"  by  famine,  if 
it  were  impregnable  by  composition  — 
all  impanelled  against  poor  Archy  for 
presenting  them  bitter  physic  the  last  day 
of  the  holidays. 

Queen.     Is  the  rain  over,  sirrah? 

King.  When  it  rains 

And  the  sun  shines,  't  will  rain  again  to- 
morrow : 
And    therefore    never   smile    till    you  've 
done  crying. 

Archy.  But  ,'t  is  all  over  now  :  like  the 
April  anger  of  woman,  the  gentle  sky  has 
wept  itself  serene. 

Queen.  What  news  abroad?  how 
looks  the  world  this  morning? 

Archy.  Gloriously  as  a  grave  covered 
with  virgin  flowers.  There  's  a  rainbow 
in  the  sky.  Let  your  Majesty  look  at  it, 
for 

"  A  rainbow  in  the  morning 
Is  the  shepherd's  warning  ;  " 

and  the  flocks  of  which  you  are  the  pas- 
tor are  scattered   among   the    mountain- 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


47* 


tops,  where  every  drop  of  water  is  a  flake 
of  snow,  and  the  breath  of  May  pierces 
like  a  January  blast. 

King.  The  sheep  have  mistaken  the 
wolf  for  their  shepherd,  my  poor  boy; 
and  the  shepherd,  the  wolves  for  their 
watchdogs. 

Queen.  But  the  rainbow  was  a  good 
sign,  Archy:  it  says  that  the  waters  of 
the  deluge  are  gone,  and  can  return  no 
more. 

Archy.  Ay,  the  salt-water  one:  but 
that  of  tears  and  blood  must  yet  come 
down,  and  that  of  fire  follow,  if  there  be 
any  truth  in  lies. — The  rainbow  hung 
over  the  city  with  all  its  shops,  .  .  .  and 
churches,  from  north  to  south,  like  a 
bridge  of  congregated  lightning  pieced  by 
the  masonry  of  heaven  —  like  a  balance 
in  which  the  angel  that  distributes  the 
coming  hour  was  weighing  that  heavy 
one  whose  poise  is  now  felt  in  the  light- 
est hearts,  before  it  bows  the  proudest 
heads  under  the  meanest  feet. 

Queen.  Who  taught  you  this  trash, 
sirrah  ? 

Archy.  A  torn  leaf  out  of  an  old 
book  trampled  in  the  dirt.  — But  for  the 
rainbow.  It  moved  as  the  sun  moved, 
and  .  .  .  until  the  top  of  the  Tower  .  .  . 
of  a  cloud  through  its  left-hand  tip,  and 
Lambeth  Falace  look  as  dark  as  a  rock 
before  the  other.  Methought  I  saw  a 
crown  figured  upon  one  tip,  and  a  mitre 
on  the  other.  So,  as  I  had  heard  treas- 
ures were  found  where  the  rainbow 
quenches  its  points  upon  the  earth,  I  set 
off,  and  at  the  Tower  —  But  I  shall  not 
tell  your  Majesty  what  I  found  close  to 
the  closet-window  on  which  the  rainbow 
had  glimmered. 

A'ing.  Speak :  I  will  make  my  Fool 
my  conscience. 

Archy.  Then  conscience  is  a  fool. — 
I  saw  there  a  cat  caught  in  a  rat-trap. 
I  heard  the  rats  squeak  behind  the  wains- 
cots :  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  very  mice 
were  consulting  on  the  manner  of  her 
death. 

Queen.     Archy  is  shrewd  and  bitter. 

Archy.  Like  the  season, 

so  blow  the  winds. — But  at  the  other 
end  of  the  rainbow,  where  the  gray  rain 


was  tempered  along  the  grass  and  leaves 
by  a  tender  interfusion  of  violet  and  gold 
in  the  meadows  beyond  Lambeth,  what 
think  you  that  I  found  instead  of  a  mitre? 
A'ing.  Vane's  wits  perhaps. 
Archy.  Something  as  vain.      I  saw 

|  a  gross  vapor  hovering  in  a  stinking  ditch 
i  over  the  carcass  of  a  dead  ass,  some  rot- 
!  ten  rags,  and  broken  dishes  —  the  wrecks 
of  what  once  administerad  to  the  stuffing- 
out  and  the  ornament  of  a  worm  of 
worms.  His  Grace  of  Canterbury  ex- 
pects to  enter  the  New  Jerusalem  some 
Palm  Sunday  in  triumph  on  the  ghost  of 
this  ass. 

Queen.     Enough,  enough  !     Go  desire 

Lady  Jane 
She    place    my  lute,  together    with    the 

music 
Mari  received  last  week  from  Italy, 
In    my   boudoir,    and — [Exit    Archy. 
A'ing.  I  '11  go  in. 

Queen.  My  beloved  lord, 

Have  you  not  noted  that  the  Fool  of  late 
Has  lost  his  careless  mirth,  and  that  his 

words 
Sound  like    the    echoes    of  our    saddest 

fears? 
What  can  it  mean?     I  should  be  loath  to 

think 
Some  factious  slave  had  tutored  him. 

A'ing.  Oh,  no  ! 

He  is  but  Occasion's  pupil.     Partly  't  is 
That  our  minds  piece  the  vacant  intervals 
Of  his  wild  words  with   their   own   fash- 
ioning, — 
As  in  the  imagery  of  summer  clouds, 
Or  coals  of  the  winter  fire,  idlers  find 
The    perfect    shadows   of    their  teeming 

thoughts: 
And  partly,  that  the  terrors  of  the  time 
Are  sown  by  wandering  Rumor    in    all 

spirits; 
And  in   the   lightest   and  the   least,  may 

best 
Be  seen  the  current  of  the  coming  wind. 
Queen.     Your    brain    is    overwrought 

with  these  deep  thoughts. 
Come,  I  will  sing  to  you;  let  us  go  try 
These  airs  from  Italy;  and,  as  we  pass 
The  gallery,    we   '11    decide  where    that 

Correggio 
Shall  hang  —  the  Virgin  Mother 


472 


CHARLES    THE   FIRST. 


With  her  child,  born  the  King  of  heaven 

and  earth, 
Whose  reign   is   men's   salvation.     And 

you  shall  see 
A  cradled  miniature  of  yourself  asleep, 
Stampt    on     the    heart    by  never-erring 

love ; 
Liker  than  any  Vandyke  ever  made, 
A  pattern  to  the  unborn  age  of  thee, 
Over  whose  sweet  beauty  I  have  wept 

for  joy 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  should  weep 

for  sorrow, 
Did  I  not  think  that  after  we  were  dead 
Our  fortunes  would  spring  high  in  him, 

and  that 
The    cares    we    waste    upon    our    heavy 

crown 
Would  make  it  light  and  glorious  as  a 

wreath 
Of  Heaven's  beams  for  his  dear  innocent 

brow. 
King.     Dear  Henrietta  ! 


SCENE  III.— The  Star  Chamber. 
Laud,  Juxon,  Strafford,  and  others, 
as  Judges.  Prynne  as  a  Prisoner, 
and  then  Bastwick. 

Laud.     Bring  forth  the  prisoner  Bast- 
wick: let  the  clerk 
RVecite  his  sentence. 

Clerk.  "  That  he  pay  five 

thousand 
Pounds  to  the  king,  lose   both  his   ears, 

be  branded 
With  red-hot  iron  on  the  cheek  and  fore- 
head, 
And    be    imprisoned    within    Lancaster 

Castle 
During  the  pleasure  of  the  Court." 

Laud.  Prisoner, 

If  you  have  aught  to  say  wherefore   this 

sentence 
Should  not  be  put  into  effect,  now  speak. 
Juxon.      If  you  have  aught  to  plead  in 
mitigation, 
Speak. 

Bastwick.  Thus,  my  lords.     If, 

like  the  prelates,  I 
Were  an  invader  of  the  royal  power, 
A  Dublic  scorner  of  the  word  of  God, 


Profane,  idolatrous,  popish,  superstitious, 
Impious  in  heart  and  in  tyrannic  act, 
Void  of  wit,  honesty,  and  temperance; 
If  Satan  were  my  lord,  as  theirs, —  our  God 
Pattern  of  all  I  should  avoid  to  do; 
Were  I  an  enemy  of  my  God  and  King 
And  of  good  men,  as  ye  are; — I  should 

merit 
Your  fearful  state  and  gilt  prosperity, 
Which,  when  ye  wake  from  the  last  sleep, 

shall  turn 
To  cowls  and  robes  of  everlasting  fire. 
But,  as  I  am,  I  bid  ye  grudge  me  not 
The  only  earthly  favor  ye  can  yield, 
Or   I    think    worth    acceptance    at    your 

hands,  — ■ 
Scorn,    mutilation,     and    imprisonment. 

Even  as  my  Master  did, 
Until  Heaven's   kingdom  shall   descend 

on  earth, 
Or  earth  be  like  a  shadow  in  the  light 
Of  heaven  absorbed — some  few  tumult- 
uous years 
Will  pass,  and  leave  no  wreck  of  what 

opposes 
His  will  whose  will  is  power. 

Laud.     Officer,  take  the  prisoner  from 

the  bar, 
And  be  his  tongue  slit  for  his  insolence. 
Bastwick.     While  this  hand  holds    a 

pen  — 
Laud.  Be  his  hands  — 

Juxon.  Stop! 

Forbear,  my  lord  !     The   tongue,  which 

now  can  speak 
No  terror,  would  interpret,  being  dumb, 
Heaven's  thunder  to  our  harm;    .   .   . 
And  hands,  which   now  write   only  their 

own  shame, 
With  bleeding    stumps    might    sign    our 

blood  away. 
Laud.     Much    more    such    "mercy" 

among  men  would  be, 
Did  all  the  ministers  of  Heaven's  revenge 
Flinch  thus  from  earthly  retribution.      I 
Could  suffer  what  I  would  inflict. 

[  Exit  Bastwick  guarded 
Bring  up 
The  Lord  Bishop  of  Lincoln.  — 

(To  Strafford).  Know  you  not 

That,    in    distraining    for    ten    thousand 

pounds 
Upon  his  books  and  furniture  at  Lincoln, 


CHARLES    THE  FIRST. 


473 


Were  found  these  scandalous  and  sedi- 
tious letters 

Sent  from  one  Osbaldistone,  who  is  fled? 

I  speak  it  not  as  touching  this  poor  per- 
son; 

But  of  the  office  which  should  make  it 
holy, 

Were  it  as  vile  as  it  was  ever  spotless. 

Mark  too,   my  lord,  that  this  expression 
strikes 

His  Majesty,  if   I  misinterpret  not. 
Enter  Bishop  Williams  guarded. 
Strafford.      'T  were    politic    and    just 
that  Williams  taste 

The  bitter  fruit  of  his  connection  with 

The    schismatics.       But    you,    my    Lord 
Archbishop, 

Who   owed  your  first  promotion  to   his 
favor, 

Who  grew  beneath  his  smile  — 

Laud.  Would  therefore  beg 

The  office  of  his  judge  from  this  High 
Court,  — 

That  it  shall  seem,  even  as  it  is,  that  I, 

In  my  assumption  of  this  sacred  robe, 

Have  put  aside  all  worldly  preference, 

All  sense  of  all  distinction  of  all  persons, 

All   thoughts   but   of   the   service   of   the 
Church.  — 

Bishop  of  Lincoln  ! 

Williams.  Peace,  proud  hierarch  ! 

I  know  my  sentence,  and  I  own  it  just. 

Thou  wilt  repay  me  less  than  I  deserve, 

In  stretching  to  the  utmost 


SCENE  IV.  — Hampden,  Pym,  Crom- 
well, his  Daughter,  and  young  Sir 
Harry  Vane. 

Hai?ipden.      England,   farewell,    thou 

who  hast  been  my  cradle, 
Shalt  never  be  my  dungeon  or  my  grave  ! 
I  held  what  I  inherited  in  thee, 
As  pawn  for  that  inheritance  of  freedom 
Which  thou  hast  sold  for  thy  despoiler's 

smile: 
How    can    I  call    thee    England,  or  my 

country?  — 
Does  the  wind  hold? 

Vane.  The  vanes  sit  steady 

Upon    the    Abbey   towers.      The    silver 

lightnings 


Of  the  evening  star,  spite  of  the  city's 

smoke, 
Tell  that   the   north  wind  reigns  in   the 

upper  air. 
Mark    too    that    flock    of    fleecy-winged 

clouds 
Sailing  athwart  St.  Margaret's. 

Hampden.  Hail,  fleet  herald 

Of   tempest !    that  rude   pilot  who   shall 

guide 
Hearts  free  as  his,  to  realms  as  pure  as 

thee, 
Beyond  the  shot  of  tyranny, 
Beyond  the  webs  of  that  swoln  spider.   .   . 
Beyond  the  curses,  calumnies,  and  lies 
Of  atheist  priests  !  And  thou 

Fair  star,  whose  beam  lies  on  the  wide 

Atlantic, 
Athwart  its  zones  of  tempest  and  of  calm, 
Bright  as  the  path  to  a  beloved  home, 
Oh,  light  us  to  the   isles   of  the   evening 

land  ! 
Like  floating  Edens  cradled  in  the  glim- 
mer 
Of    sunset,  through  the    distant  mist  of 

years 
Toucht  by  departing  hope,  they  gleam ! 

lone  regions, 
Where  power's  poor  dupes  and  victims 

yet  have  never 
Propitiated  the  savage  fear  of  kings 
With    purest    blood    of    noblest    hearts; 

whose  dew 
Is  yet  unstained  with  tears  of  those  who 

wake 
To  weep  each  day  the  wrongs  on  which 

it  dawns; 
Whose    sacred   silent   air   owns   yet    no 

echo 
Of    formal    blasphemies;     nor    impious 

rites 
Wrest  man's  free  worship,  from  the  God 

who  loves, 
To   the   poor  worm  who   envies    us    his 

love  ! 
Receive,  thou  young  of  Paradise, 

These    exiles    from    the    old    and    sinful 

world  ! 

This    glorious     clime,     this    firmament, 

whose  lights 
Dart     mitigated     influence     thro'     theil 

veil 


474 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 


Of    pale  blue   atmosphere;    whose   tears 

keep  green 
The  pavement  of  this  moist  all-feeding 

earth; 
This  vaporous  horizon,  whose  dim  round 
Is  bastioned  by  the  circumfluous  sea, 
Repelling     invasion     from     the      sacred 

towers, 
Presses  upon  me  like  a  dungeon's  grate, 
A   low  dark  roof,  a  damp  and    narrow 

wall. 
The  boundless  universe 
Becomes  a  cell  too  narrow  for  the  soul 
That  owns  no  master;   while  the  loath- 

liest  ward 
Of  this  wide  prison,  England,  is  a  nest 
Of  cradling  peace  built  on  the  mountain 

tops,  — 
To  which  the  eagle  spirits  of  the  free, 
Which  range  thro'    heaven    and    earth, 

and  scorn  the  storm 
Of    time,   and    gaze    upon    the    light    of 

truth, 
Return  to  brood  on  thoughts  that  cannot 

die 
And  cannot  be  repelled. 
Like   eaglets   floating  in   the   heaven  of 

time, 
They  soar  above   their  quarry,  and  shall 

stoop 
Thro' palaces  and  temples  thunder-proof. 


SCENE   V. 

Archy.  I'll  go  live  under  the  ivy 
that  overgrows  the  terrace,  and  count 
the  tears  shed  on  its  old  roots  as  the 
[v/ind]  plays  the  song  of 

"  A  widow  bird  sate  mourning 
Upon  a  wintry  bough." 

[Sings,] 
Heigho  !   the  lark  and  the  owl  ! 

One   flies  the   morning,  and   one  lulls 
the  night :  — 
Only  the  nightingale,  poor  fond  soul, 
Sings  like  the    fool  through   darkness 
and  light. 

54  A   widow  bird  sate  mourning   for  her 
love 
Upon  a  wintry  bough; 


The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 
The  freezing  stream  below. 

"There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground, 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound." 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE. 

Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task 
Of   glory  and   of   good,  the  Sun  sprang 

forth 
Rejoicing  in  his  splendor,  and  the  mask 

Of     darkness    fell    from    the     awakened 

Earth  — 
The   smokeless   altars   of    the    mountain 

snows 
Flamed    above    crimson    clouds,  and    at 

the  birth 

Of  light,  the  Ocean's  orison  arose, 

To  which  the  birds  tempered  their  matin 

lay. 
All  flowers  in  field  or  forest  which  un- 
close 

Their   trembling  eyelids   to   the   kiss    of 

day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  element, 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray 

Burned  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous   sighs    up    to    the   smiling 

air; 
And,  in  succession  due,  did  continent. 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in   them 

wear 
The  form  and  character  of  mortal  mould, 
Rise    as    the    Sun    their    father  rose,   to 

bear 

Their  portion   of   the   toil,  which   he   of 

old 
Took  as  his  own,  and  then  imposed  on 

them  : 
But   I,   whom   thoughts  which   must  re' 

main  untold 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 


475 


Had  kept  as  wakeful  as   the  stars   that 

gem 
The  cone  of  night,  now  they  were  laid 

asleep 
Stretcht  my  faint  limbs  beneath  the  hoary 

stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the 

steep 
Of  a  green  Apennine:   before  me  fled 
The  night;     behind    me    rose    the    day; 

the  deep 

Was  at  my  feet,  and  Heaven  above  my 

head, 
When  a   strange   trance   over   my  fancy 

grew 
Which  was  not  slumber,  for  the  shade  it 

spread 

Was  so  transparent,  that  the  scene  came 

thro' 
As  clear  as  when  a  veil  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills  they  glimmer;   and  I 

knew 

That    I    had   felt    the   freshness  of    that 

dawn, 
Bathed  in   the  same  cold  dew  my  brow 

and  hair, 
And    sat    as    thus    upon    that    slope    of 

lawn 

Under  the  self-same  bough,  and   heard 

as  there 
The  birds,  the    fountains  and  the  ocean 

hold 
Sweet  talk  in  music  thro'  the  enamoured 

air, 
And    then    a    vision    on    my    brain    was 

rolled. 


As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought 

I  lay, 
This     was     the     tenor     of     my     waking 

dream :  — 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  public  way 

Thick   strewn  with   summer  dust,  and  a 

great  stream 
Of    people    there   was    hurrying   to   and 

fro, 


Numerous  as  gnats  upon  the  evening 
gleam, 

All  hastening  onward,  yet  none  seemed 

to  know 
Whither  he  went,  or   whence  he  came 

or  why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitude,  and  so 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  thro' 
the  sky 

One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's 
bier; 

Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  in- 
fancy 

Mixt  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear, 
Some  flying  from   the  thing  they  feared, 

and  some 
Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear; 

And  others  as  with    steps    towards    the 

tomb, 
Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawled 

beneath, 
And  others  mournfully  within  the  gloom 

Of  their   own  shadow  walkt   and  called 

it  death; 
And    some    fled    from    it    as    it    were    a 

ghost, 
Half    fainting    in  the  affliction    of    vain 

breath : 

But     more,    with     motions    which     each 

other  crost, 
Pursued    or    shunned    the    shadows    the 
clouds  threw, 
1   Or  birds  within  the  noonday  ether  lost, 

Upon  that  path  where  flowers  never 
grew,  — 

And,  weary  with  vain  toil  and  faint  for 
thirst, 

Heard  not  the  fountains,  whose  melodi- 
ous dew 

Out  of  their  mossy  cells  forever  burst; 
Nor    felt    the     breeze    which     from    the 

forest  told 
Of  grassy  paths  and  wood-lawns  inter- 

sperst 


4/6 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 


With  overarching  elms  and  caverns  cold, 
And  violet  banks  where    sweet    dreams 

brood,  but  they 
Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

And  as  I  gazed,  methought  that  in  the 

way 
The   throng  grew  wilder,  as   the  woods 

of  June 
When  the  south  wind  shakes  the  extin- 

guisht  day, 

And    a   cold    glare,    intenser    than    the 

noon, 
But    icy    cold,    obscured    with    blinding 

light 
The    sun,    as    he    the    stars.       Like    the 

young  moon  — 

When  on  the  sunlit  limits  of  the  night 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson 

air, 
And  whilst  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers 

might 

Doth,  as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 
The    ghost    of   its   dead   mother,    whose 

dim  form 
Bends   in   dark   ether   from  her  infant's 


So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 
Of     its    own     rushing     splendor,    and    a 

Shape 
So   sat   within,   as   one   whom   years   de 

form, 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape,     I 
Crouching  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb; 
And  o'er  what  seemed  the  head  a  cloud- 
like crape 

Was  bent,  a  dun  and  faint  ethereal  gloom 
Tempering  the  light.      Upon  the   chariot 

beam 
A  Janus-visaged  Shadow  did  assume 

The    guidance    of     that    wonder-winged 

team; 
The     shapes    which     drew     it     in    thick 

lightnings 
Were  lost : — I  heard  alone  on  the  air's 

soft  stream 


The  music  of  their  ever-moving  wings. 
All  the  four  faces  of  that  charioteer 
Had    their    eyes    banded  ;     little    profit 
brings 

Speed  in   the  van   and  blindness  in  the 

rear, 
Nor   then  avail  the  beams  that  quench 

the  sun 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes   could  pierce 

the  sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been  or  will  be  done; 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided — but  it  past 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 

The  crowd  gave  way,  and  I  arose  aghast, 
Or   seemed   to   rise,  so   mighty  was  the 

trance, 
And   saw,  like  clouds  upon  the  thunder 

blast, 

The  million  with  fierce  song  and  maniac 

dance 
Raging  around  — such  seemed  the  jubilee 
As  when  to  greet  some  conqueror's  ad- 
vance 

Imperial  Rome   poured  forth  her  living 

sea 
From    senate-house,     and    forum,     and 

theatre, 
When  upon  the  free 

Had   bound    a    yoke,    which    soon    they 

stoopt  to  bear. 
Nor  wanted  here  the  just  similitude 
Of  a  triumphal  pageant,  for  where'er 

The  chariot  rolled,  a  captive  multitude 
Was  driven;  —  all  those  who  had  grown 

old  in  power 
Or  misery,  —  all  who  had  their  age  sub- 
dued 

By  action  or  by  suffering,  and  whose  hour 
Was  drained  to  its   last   sand   in  weal   or 

woe, 
So  that  the  trunk  survived  both  fruit  and 

flower;  — 

All   those   whose   fame    or    infamy  must 
grow 


THE    TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE. 


477 


Till  the  great  winter  lay  the  form  and 

name 
Of    this  green  earth  with  them    forever 

low;  — 

All  but  the  sacred  few  who  could  not 
tame 

Their  spirits  to  the  conquerors  —  but  as 
soon 

As  they  had  toucht  the  world  with  liv- 
ing flame, 

Fled  back  like    eagles    to    their    native 

noon, 
Or  those  who  put  aside  the  diadem 
Of  earthly  thrones  or  gems  .   .   . 

Were  there,  of  Athens  or  Jerusalem, 
Were  neither    mid   the   mighty  captives 

seen 
Nor  mid  the  ribald  crowd  that  followed 

them, 

Nor  those  who  went   before  fierce   and 

obscene. 
The  wild  dance  maddens  in  the  van,  and 

those 
Who  lead  it  —  fleet  as  shadows  on  the 

green, 

Outspeed  the  chariot,  and  without  repose 
Mix    with    each    other     in     tempestuous 

measure 
To  savage  music,  wilder  as  it  grows, 

They,  tortured  by  their  agonizing  pleas- 
ure, 

Convulst  and  on  the  rapid  whirlwinds 
spun 

Of  that  fierce  spirit,  whose  unholy  leisure 

Was  soothed  by  mischief  since  the  world 

begun, 
Throw  back  their  heads  and  loose  their 

streaming  hair; 
And  in  their  dance  round  her  who  dims 

the  sun, 

Maidens  and  youths  fling  their  wild  arms 

in  air 
As  their   feet  twinkle;    they  recede,  and 

now 
Bending  within  each  other's  atmosphere, 


Kindle  invisibly  —  and  as  they  glow, 
Like  moths  by  light    attracted    and   re- 
pelled, 
Oft  to  their  bright  destruction  come  and 
g°> 

Till  like  two  clouds  into  one  vale  im- 
pelled, 

That  shake  the  mountains  when  their 
lightnings  mingle 

And  die  in  rain  —  the  fiery  band  which 
held 

Their  natures,  snaps  —  while  the  shock 

still  may  tingle; 
One  falls  and  then  another  in  the  path 
Senseless  —  nor  is  the  desolation  single, 

Yet  ere   I  can  say  where — the  chariot 

hath 
Past  over  them  —  nor  other  trace  I  find 
But  as  of  foam  after  the  ocean's  wrath 

I    Is  spent  upoa  the  desert  shore;  —  behind, 
!    Old  men  and  women  foully  disarrayed, 
I    Shake  their  gray  hairs  in   the  insulting 
wind, 

i   And  follow  in  the  dance,  with  limbs  de- 
cayed, 

!   Seeking  to  reach  the  light  which  leaves 
them  still 
Farther  behind  and  deeper  in  the  shade. 

But  not  the  less  with  impotence  of  will 
They  wheel,  though  ghastly  shadows  in- 
terpose 
Round  them  and  round  each  other,  and 
fulfil 

Their  work,  and  in  the  dust  from  whence 

they  rose 
Sink,  and  corruption  veils  them   as  they 

lie, 
And  past  in  tiiese  performs  what 

in  those. 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  this  sad  pa- 
geantry, 

Half  to  myself  I  said  —  And  what  is 
this? 

Whose  shape  is  that  within  the  car? 
And  why  — 


473 


THE    TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE. 


I  would  have  added  —  is  all  here  amiss  ? — 
But    a    voice    answered  —  "Life!" — I 

turned,  and  knew 
(O  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  such  wretch- 
edness !  ) 

That  what  I  thought  was    an    old    root 

which  grew 
To  strange  distortion  out  of  the  hillside, 
Was  indeed  one  of  those  deluded  crew, 

And    that    the    grass,  which    methought 

hung  so  wide 
And  white,  was  but  his  thin  discolored 

hair, 
And  that  the  holes  he  vainly  sought  to 

hide, 

Were  or  had  been  eyes:  —  "If  thou 
canst,  forbear 

To  join  the  dance,  which  I  had  well  for- 
borne !  ' ' 

Said  the  grim  Feature  (of  my  thought 
aware). 

"I  will  unfold  that  which  to  this  deep 

scorn 
Led  me  and  my  companions,  and  relate 
The  progress  of   the  pageant  since  the 

morn; 

"If  thirst  of  knowledge  shall  not  then 

abate, 
Follow  it  thou  even  to  the  night,  but  I 
Am  weary."  — Then  like  one  who  with 

the  weight 

Of  his  own  words  is  staggered,  wearily 
He  paused;  and  ere  he  could   resume,  I 

cried : 
"  First,  who  art  thou?  "  —  "  Before  thy 

memory, 

"I    feared,   loved,   hated,   suffered,   did 

and  died, 
And  if  the  spark  with  which  Heaven  lit 

my  spirit 
Had  been  with  purer  nutriment  supplied, 

"  Corruption  would  not   now  thus  much 

inherit 
Of  what  was  once  Rousseau,  —  nor  this 

disguise 


Stain  that  which  ought  to  have  disdained 
to  wear  it; 

"  If  I  have  been  extinguisht,  yet  there 

rise 
A  thousand  beacons   from  the   spark   I 

bore  "  — 
"And    who    are    those    chained    to    the 

car?  "  —  "  The  wise, 

"The    great,     the    unforgotten,  —  they 

who  wore 
Mitres  and  helms  and  crowns,  or  wreaths 

of  light, 
Signs  of  thought's  empire   over  thought 

—  their  lore 

"Taught  them  not   this,  to  know  them- 
selves; their  might 
Could  not  repress  the  mystery  within, 
And  for  the  morn  of  truth  they  feigned, 
deep  night 

"  Caught  them  ere  evening."  —  "Who 

is  he  with  chin 
Upon  his  breast,  and  hands  crost  on  his 

chain?  "  — 
"The  child  of  a  fierce  hour;  he  sought 

to  win 

"  The  world,  and  lost  all  that  it  did  con- 
tain 

Of  greatness,  in  its  hope  destroyed;  and 
more 

Of  fame  and  peace  than  virtue's  self  can 
gain 

"Without  the  opportunity  which  bore 
Him  on  its  eagle  pinions  to  the  peak 
From  which   a    thousand    climbers  have 
before 

"Fallen,  as  Napoleon   fell."     I  felt  my 

cheek 
Alter,  to  see  the  shadow  pass  away, 
Whose  grasp  had  left  the  giant  world  so 

weak, 

That  every  pygmy  kickt  it  as  it  lay; 
And  much  I  grieved  to  think  how  power 

and  will 
In  opposition  rule  our  mortal  day, 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 


479 


And  why  God  made  irreconcilable 
Good   and  the   means  of  good;   and  for 

despair 
I  half  disdained  mine  eyes'  desire  to  fill 

With  the  spent  vision  of  the  times  that 

were 
And  scarce   have  ceast   to  be.        "Dost 

thou  behold," 
Said  my  guide,  "those   spoilers  spoiled, 

Voltaire, 

"  Frederick,    and    Paul,    Catherine,   and 

Leopold, 
And    hoary    anarchs,    demagogues,    and 

sage  — 
names  which  the  world  thinks  always 

old, 

"  For  in  the  battle  Life  and  they  did 
wage, 

She  remained  conqueror.  I  was  over- 
come 

By  my  own  heart  alone,  which  neither 
age, 

"  Nor   tears,   nor    infamy,  nor    now   the 

tomb 
Could    temper    to    its    object."  —  "Let 

them  pass," 
I  cried,  "the   world   and   its   mysterious 

doom 

"  Is  not  so  much  more  glorious  than  it 

was, 
That  I  desire  to  worship  those  who  drew 
New  figures  on  its  false  and  fragile  glass 

"As    the   old    faded."  —  "Figures  ever 

new 
Rise  on   the  bubble,  paint   them  as  you 

may; 
We  have  but  thrown,  as  those  before  us 

threw, 

"  Our  shadows  on  it  as  it  past  away. 
But  mark   how  chained  to  the  triumphal 

chair 
The  mighty  phantoms  of  an  elder  day; 

"  All  that  is  mortal  of  great  Plato  there 
Expiates    the    joy    and    woe    his    master 
knew  not; 


The  star  that  ruled  his  doom  was  far  too 
fair, 

"And   life,   where    long    that    flower   of 

Heaven  grew  not, 
Conquered  that  heart  by  love,  which  gold, 

or  pain, 
Or  age,  or  sloth,  or  slavery  could  subdue 

not. 

"  And  near  him  walk  the  twain, 

The  tutor  and  his  pupil,  whom  Dominion 
Followed  as  tame  as  vulture  in  a  chain. 

"  The  world  was  darkened  beneath  either 
pinion 

Of  him  whom  from  the  flock  of  conquer- 
ors 

Fame  singled  out  for  her  thunder-bearing 
minion; 

"  The  other  long  outlived  both  woes  and 

wars, 
Throned   in  the   thoughts   of    men,    and 

still  had  kept 
The  jealous  key  of  truth's  eternal  doors. 

"  If  Bacon's  eagle  spirit  had  not  leapt 
Like  lightning  out  of  darkness  —  he  com- 
pelled 
The  Proteus  shape  of  Nature  as  it  slept 

"To  wake,    and  lead  him   to   the  caves 

that  held 
The  treasure  of  the  secrets  of  its  reign. 
See  the  great   bards  of  elder  time,  who 

quelled 

"The   passions  which  they  sung,  as  by 

their  strain 
May  well  be  known:   their  living  melody 
;  Tempers  its  own  contagion  to  the  vein 

"Of  those  who  were  infected  with  it  —  I 
i   Have    suffered    what    I    wrote,    or    viler 

pain  ! 
j   And  so  my  words  have  seeds  of  misery  — 

"Even   as    the   deeds  of  others,   not   as 

theirs." 
And  then  he  pointed  to  a  company, 


4S0 


THE    TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE. 


Midst  whom  I  quickly  recognized  the 
heirs 

Of  Caesar's  crime,  from  him  to  Constan- 
tine; 

The  anarch  chiefs,  whose  force  and  mur- 
derous snares 

1  lad  founded  many  a  sceptre-bearing  line, 
And  spread  the  plague  of  gold  and  blood 

abroad : 
And  Gregory  and  John,  and  men  divine, 

Who  rose  like  shadows  between  man  and 

God; 
Till     that     eclipse,     still    hanging     over 

heaven, 
Was  worshipt  by  the   world  o'er   which 

they  strode, 

For    the    true  sun   it    quencht  —  "Their 

power  was  given 
Imt  to   destroy,"  replied  the    leader:  — 

"I 
Am  one  of  those  who  have  created,  even 

"  If  it  be  but  a  world  of  agony."  — 

"  Whence    earnest    thou  ?    and     whither 

goest  thou  ? 
How    did    thy    course    begin?"     I  said, 

" and  why? 

"  Mine    eyes  are   sick   of  this  perpetual 

flow 
Of  people,  and  my  heart  sick  of  one  sad 

thought  — 
Speak  !  "  —  "  Whence    I    am,     I    partly 

seem  to  know, 

"  And  how  and  by  what  paths  I  have 
been  brought 

To  this  dread  pass,  methinks  even  thou 
mayst  guess ;  — 

Why  this  should  be,  my  mind  can  com- 
pass not; 

"  Whither  the  conqueror  hurries  me  still 

less;  — 
l>ut  follow  thou,  and  from  spectator  turn 
Actor  or  victim  in  this  wretchedness, 

"  And    what  thou  wouldst    be    taught  I 

then  may  learn 
From  thee.     Now  listen  :  —  In  the  April 

prime, 
When  all  the  forest  tips  began  to  burn 


"  With   kindling   green,    toucht    by    the 

azure  clime 
Of  the  young  season,  I  was  laid  asleep 
Under  a  mountain,  which  from  unknown 

time 

"  Had  yawned  into  a  cavern,   high  and 

deep; 
And  from  it  came  a  gentle  rivulet, 
Whose  water,  like  clear  air,  in  its  calm 

sweep 

"  Bent   the    soft  grass,  and  kept  forever 

wet 
The  stems  of  the  sweet  flowers,  and  filled 

the  grove 
With  sounds,  which    whoso    hears  must 

needs  forget 

"  All  pleasure  and  all  pain,  all  hate  and 

love, 
Which  they  had  known  before  that  hour 

of  rest; 
A    sleeping    mother    then    would    dream 

not  of 

"  Her    only    child    who    died    upon    the 

breast 
At  eventide  —  a  king  would    mourn   no 

more 
The  crown  of  which  his  brows  were   dis- 

possest 

"  When  the  sun  lingered  o'er  his  ocean 
floor, 

To  gild  his  rival's  new  prosperity. 

Thou  wouldst  forget  thus  vainly  to  de- 
plore 

"  Ills,  which  if  ills  can  find  no  cure  from 

thee, 
The  thought  of  which  no  other  sleep  will 

quell, 
Nor  other  music  blot  from  memory, 

"  So    sweet    and    deep    is    the    oblivious 

spell ; 
And  whether  life  had  been  before  that 

sleep 
The  heaven  which  I  imagine,  or  a  hell 

"  Like  this  harsh  world  in  which  I  wake 
to  weep, 


THE    TRIUMPH   OF  LITE 


481 


I  know  not.     I  arose,  and  for  a  space 
The  scene  of  woods  and  waters  seemed 
to  keep, 

"Tho'  it  was  now  broad  day,  a  gentle 

trace 
Of  light  diviner  than  the  common  sun 
Sheds  on  the  common  earth,  and  all  the 

place 

"  Was  filled  with  magic  sounds  woven 

into  one 
Oblivious  melody,  confusing  sense 
Amid    the    gliding  waves    and    shadows 

dun; 

"And,  as  I  lookt,  the  bright  omni- 
presence 

Of  morning  thro'  the  orient  cavern 
flowed, 

And  the  sun's  image  radiantly  intense 

"  Burned  on  the  waters  of  the  well  that 

glowed 
Like  gold,  and  threaded  all  the  forest's 

maze 
With    winding    paths    of    emerald    fire; 

there  stood 

"  Amid  the  sun,  as  he  amid  the  blaze 
Of  his  own  glory,  on  the  vibrating 
Floor  of  the  fountain,  paved  with  flash- 
ing rays, 

"  A  Shape  all  light,  which  with  one  hand 

did  fling 
Dew  on   the   earth,   as   if    she   were    the 

dawn, 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 

"A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn; 
And  still  before  me  on  the  dusky  grass, 
Iris  her  many-colored  scarf  had  drawn : 

"  In  her  right  hand  she  bore   a  crystal 

glass, 
Mantling    with    bright    Nepenthe  ;    the 

fierce  splendor 
Fell  from  her   as  she  moved  under   the 

mass 

"Of  the  deep  cavern,  and  with  palms 
so  tender, 


Their  tread  broke  not   the  mirror  of  its 

billow, 
Glided  along  the  river,  and  did  bend  her 

"  Head  under  the  dark  boughs,  till   like 

a  willow, 
Her   fair   hair   swept   the   bosom   of    the 

stream 
That  whispered   with    delight   to  be   its 

pillow. 

"  As  one  enamoured  is  upborne  in  dream» 
O'er  lily-paven  lakes  mid  silver  mist, 
To  wondrous  music,  so  this  shape   might 
seem 

"  Partly    to    tread    the  waves  with    feet 

which  kist 
The  dancing  foam;  partly  to  glide  along 
The    air    which     roughened     the     moist 
amethyst, 

"  Or  the   faint  morning  beams  that  fell 

among 
The  trees,  or  the  soft  shadows   of    the 

trees; 
And  her  feet,  ever  to  the  ceaseless  song 

"Of  leaves,  and  winds,  and  waves,  and 

birds,  and  bees, 
And  falling  drops,  moved   in   a  measure 

new 
Yet  sweet,   as  on  the  summer    evening 

breeze, 

"Up  from  the  lake  a  shape  of  golden 

dew 
Between  two   rocks,   athwart   the   rising 

moon, 
Dances  i'   the  wind,  where  never  eagle 

flew; 

"And    still    her    feet,   no   less  than  the 

sweet  tune 
To   which   they  moved,  seemed   as  they 

moved  to  blot 
The  thoughts  of  him  who  gazed  on  them ; 

and  soon 

"  All  that  was,  seemed  as  if  it  had  been 
not; 

And  all  the  gazer's  mind  was  strewn  be- 
neath 


43: 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 


Her  feet- like  embers;  and  she,  thought 
by  thought, 

"Trampled   its   sparks   into   the   dust  of 

death; 
As  day  upon  the  threshold  of  the  east 
Treads  out  the  lamps  of  night,  until  the 

breath 

"  Of  darkness  re-illumine  even  the  least 
Of  heaven's  living  eyes  —  like  day  she 

came, 
Making  the  night  a  dream;  and   ere  she 

ceast 

"To  move,   as  one  between  desire  and 

shame 
Suspended,  I  said  —  If,  as  it  doth  seem, 
Thou  comest   from   the   realm  without   a 

name, 

"  Into  this  valley  of  perpetual  dream, 
Show  whence  I  came,  and  where   I  am, 

and  why  — 
Pass  not  away  upon  the  passing  stream. 

"Arise   and   quench   thy  thirst,  was  her 

reply. 
And  as  a  shut  lily  stricken  by  the  wand 
Of  dewy  morning's  vital  alchemy, 

"  I  rose;  and,  bending  at  her  sweet  com- 
mand, 

Toucht  with  faint  lips  the  cup  she 
raised, 

And  suddenly  my  brain  became  as  sand 

"  Where  the  first  wave  had  more   than 

half  erased 
The  track  of  deer  on  desert  Labrador; 
Whilst  the  wolf,   from  which  they  fled 

amazed, 

"  Leaves     his    stamp    visibly    upon     the 

shore, 
Until  the  second  bursts;  —  so  on  my  sight 
Hurst  a  new  vision,  never  seen  before, 

"  And  the  fair  shape  waned  in  the  com- 
ing light, 
As  veil  by  veil  the  silent  splendor  drops 
From  Lucifer,  amid  the  chrysolite 


"  Of  sunrise,   ere  it  tinge   the  mountain 

tops; 
And    as    the    presence    of    that    fairest 

planet, 
Altho'     unseen,    is     felt     by    one     who 

hopes 

"  That  his  day's  path  may  end  as  he  be- 
gan it, 

In  that  star's  smile,  whose  light  is  '.ike 
the  scent 

Of  a  jonquil  when  evening  breezes  fan 
it, 

"  Or  the  soft  note  in  which  his  dear 
lament 

The  Brescian  shepherd  breathes,  or  the 
caress 

That  turned  his  weary  slumber  to  con- 
tent ; 

"  So  knew  I  in  that  light's  severe  excess 
The  presence  of  that  shape  which  on  the 

stream 
Moved,  as  I  moved  along  the  wilderness 

"More     dimly    than    a    day-appearing 

dream, 
The  ghost  of  a  forgotten  form  of  sleep; 
A    light    of    heaven,    whose    half-extin- 

guisht  beam 

"Thro'     the     sick    day    in    which    we 

wake  to  weep, 
Glimmers,  forever  sought,  forever  lost; 
So  did  that  shape  its  obscure  tenor  keep 

"  Beside  my  path,  as  silent  as  a  ghost; 
But  the  new  Vision,  and  the  cold  bright 

car, 
With  solemn  speed  and  stunning  music, 

crost 

"The  forest,  and  as  if  from  some  dread 

war 
Triumphantly  returning,  the  loud  million 
Fiercely  extolled  the  fortune  of  her  star. 

"A  moving    arch    of    victory,    the    ver- 
milion 
And  green  and  azure  plumes  of   Iris  had 
Built  high  over  her  wind-winged  pavilion, 


THE    TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE. 


4S3 


"  And  underneath  ethereal  glory  clad 
The  wilderness,  and  far  before  her  flew 
The  tempest  of   the  splendor,  which  for- 
bade 

"  Shadow  to   fall   from  leaf  and  stone; 

the  crew 
Seemed  in   that    light,    like    atomies    to 

dance 


"  Before  the  chariot  had  begun  to  climb 
The   opposing   steep   of    that   mysterious 

dell, 
Behold  a  wonder  worthy  of  the  rhyme 

"  Of  him  who  from  the  lowest  depths  of 

hell, 
Thro'    every   paradise    and    through    all 

giory> 


Within  a  sunbeam;  —  some  upon  the  new   ;   Love  led  serene,   and  who  returned  to 

tell 
"  Embroidery  of    flowers,    that  did    en- 
hance 
The  grassy  vesture  of  the  desert,  played, 


The  words  of  hate  and  awe;  the  won- 
drous story 
Forgetful  of  the  chariot's  swift  advance;       I  low  all   things   are   transfigured   except 

Love ; 
Others   stood    gazing,    till    within    the       For  deaf  as  is  a  sea,  which  wrath  makes 


shade 
Of  the  great  mountain  its  light  left  them 

dim; 
Others  outspeeded  it;  and  others  made 

"  Circles  around  it,  like  the  clouds  that 

swim 
Round  the  high  moon  in  a  bright  sea   of 

air; 
And    more    did    follow,    with    exulting      "  Grew  dense  with  shadows  to  its  inmost 


hoary, 

"The    world    can    hear    not    the    sweet 

notes  that  move 
The    sphere    whose    light    is   melody   to 

lovers  — 
A   wonder   worthy  of    his  rhyme.     The 

grove 


hymn, 

"  The  chariot  and  the   captives   fettered 

there : — 
But  all  like  bubbles  on  an  eddying  flood 
Fell   into   the    same    track    at    last,    and 

were 

"  Borne   onward.     I   among  the    multi- 
tude 

Was    swept  —  me,   sweetest  flowers  de- 
layed not  long; 

Me,  not  the    shadow  nor  the  solitude; 

"  Thantoms   diffused  around;  and   some 

"  Me,  not  that  falling  stream's   Lethean   i  did  fling 

song;  Shadows   of  shadows,   yet  unlike   them- 

Me,  not  the  phantom  of  that  early  form,  selves, 

Which    moved    upon    its    motion  —  but      Behind  them;  some  like  eaglets  on  the 
among  wing 

"The    thickest    billows    of     that     living       "Were    lost    in    the  white    day;    others 

storm  like  elves 

I  plunged,  and   bared  my  bosom   to   the       Danced     in     a      thousand     unimagined 


covers, 
The  earth  was  gray  with  phantoms,  and 

the  air 
Was   peopled  with    dim   forms,  as   when 

there  hovers 

"  A  flock  of  vampire-bats  before  the 
glare 

Of  the  tropic  sun,  bringing,  ere  even- 
ing, 

Strange  night  upon  some  Indian  isle;  — 
thus  were 


clime 


dia 


Of   that  cold  light,  whose    airs  too  soon   '   Upon    the     sunny    streams     and     grassy 


deform. 


shelves; 


484 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 


■'  And  others  sate  chattering  like  restless 

apes 
On  vulgar  hands,    .    .   . 
Some  made  a  cradle  of  the  ermined  capes 

"Of    kingly  mantles;    some    across    the 

tiar 
Of    pontiffs    sate    like    vultures;    others 

played 
Under  the  crown  which  girt  with  empire 

"  A  baby's  or  an  idiot's  brow,  and  made 
Their  nests  in  it.     The  old  anatomies 
Sate  hatching  their  bare  broods  under  the 
shade 

"Of    demon    wings,   and    laught    from 

their  dead  eyes 
To  reassume  the  delegated  power, 
Arrayed  in  which  those  worms  did  mon- 

archize, 

"Who  made    this    earth    their    charnel. 

Others  more 
Humble,  like  falcons,  sate  upon  the  fist 
Of   common  men,  and  round  their  heads 

did  soar; 

"Or  like  small  gnats  and  flies,  as  thick 
as  mist 

On  evening  marshes,  thronged  about  the 
brow 

Of  lawyers,  statesmen,  priest  and  theo- 
rist;— 

"And  others,   like    discolored    flakes   of 

snow 
On  fairest  bosoms  and  the  sunniest  hair, 
Fell,    and   were   melted   by  the  youthful 

glow 

"Which    they    extinguisht;    and,     like 

tears,  they  were 
A  veil  to  those  from  whose  faint  lids  they 

rained 
In  drops  of  sorrow.      I  became  aware 

"  Of    whence     those    forms    proceeded 

which  thus  stained 
The   track   in    which    we   moved.     After 

brief  space, 
From     every    form     the     beauty    slowly 

waned; 


"  From  every  firmest    limb    and    fairest 

face 
The  strength  and  freshness  fell  like  dust, 

and  left 
The  action  and  the    shape  without    the 

grace 

"  Of  life.     The  marble  brow  of    youth 

was  cleft 
With  care;  and  in  those  eyes  where  once 

hope  shone, 
Desire,  like  a  lioness  bereft 

"Of  her  last   cub,   glared  ere   it   died', 

each  one 
Of  that  great  crowd  sent  forth  incessantly 
These  shadows,   numerous  as  the   dead 

leaves  blown 

"  In  autumn  evening  from  a  poplar-tree. 
Each  like  himself    and  like  each  other 

were 
At  first;  but  some  distorted  seemed  to  be 

"  Obscure  clouds,  moulded  by  the  casual 

air; 
And  of  this  stuff  the  car's  creative  ray 
Wrought    all    the    busy    phantoms    that 

were  there, 

"  As  the  sun  shapes  the  clouds;  thus  on 
the  way 

Mask  after  mask  fell  from  the  counte- 
nance 

And  form  of  all;  and  long  before  the 
day 

"Was    old,  the    joy  which  _  waked    like 

heaven's  glance 
The    sleepers    in     the     oblivious    valley, 

died; 
And    some    grew  weary  of    the    ghastly 

dance, 

"And  fell,  as  I  have  fallen,  by  the  way- 
side;— 

Those  soonest  from  whose  forms  most 
shadows  past, 

And  least  of  strength  and  beauty  did 
abide. 

"Then,  what  is  life?  I  cried." 


EARLY  POEMS. 


48: 


CANCELLED   OPENING   OF 
"THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE." 

Out  of  the  eastern  shadow  of  the  Earth, 
Amid  the  clouds  upon  its  margin  gray 
Scattered  by  Night  to  swathe  in  its  bright 
birth 

In    gold    and    fleecy  snow  the    infant 

Day, 
The  glorious  Sun    uprose :    beneath    his 

light, 
The  earth  and  all  .    .   . 


EARLY    POEMS. 

•     STANZA,    WRITTEN   AT 
BRACKNELL. 

Thy  dewy  looks  sink  in  my  breast; 

Thy  gentle  words  stir  poison  there; 
Thou  hast  disturbed  the  only  rest 

That  was  the  portion  of  despair  ! 
Subdued  to  Duty's  hard  control, 

I  could  have  borne  my  wayward  lot: 
The  chains  that  bind  this  ruined  soul 

Had  cankered    then  —  but    crusht 
not. 


STANZAS.— April,  1814. 

Away  !    the  moor  is  dark    beneath    the 
moon, 
Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale 
beam  of  even : 
Away  !   the  gathering  winds  will  call  the 
darkness  soon, 
And  profoundest  midnight  shroud   the 
serene  lights  of  heaven. 

Pause  not !     The   time   is   past !     Every 
voice  cries,  Away  ! 
Tempt  not  with  one  last  tear  thy  friend's 
ungentle  mood: 
Thy   lover's    eye,    so    glazed    and    cold, 
dares  not  entreat  thy  stay: 
Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back 
to  solitude. 


Away,  away  !  to  thy  sad  and  silent  home; 
Pour  bitter  tears  on  its  desolated  hearth ; 
Watch  the  dim  shades  as  like  ghosts  they 
go  and  come, 
And  complicate  strange  webs  of  mel- 
ancholy mirth. 

The  leaves  of  wasted  autumn  woods  shall 
float  around  thine  head: 
The    blooms    of    dewy    spring    shall 
gleam  beneath  thy  feet : 
But  thy  soul  or  this  world  must   fade  in 
the  frost  that  binds  the  dead, 
Ere  midnight's  frown  and  morning's 
smile,   ere  thou   and    peace    may 
meet. 

The  cloud  —  shadows  of  midnight  possess 
their  own  repose, 
For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the 
moon  is  in  the  deep : 
Some  respite  to  its  turbulence  unresting 
ocean  knows; 
Whatever  moves,  or  toils,  or  grieves, 
hath  its  appointed  sleep. 

Thou  in  the  grave  shalt  rest  —  yet  till  the 
phantoms  flee 
Which  that  house  and  heath  and  garden 
made  dear  to  thee  erewhile, 
Thy  remembrance,  and   repentance,   and 
deep  musings  are  not  free 
From  the  music  of  two  voices  and  the 
light  of  one  sweet  smile. 


TO    MARY   WOLLSTONECRAFT 
GODWIN. 


Mine  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  unshed; 

Yes,  I  was  firm  —  thus  wert  not  thou;  — 
My  baffled  looks  did  fear  yet  dread 

To  meet  thy  looks  — I  could  not  know 
I  low  anxiously  they  sought  to  shine 
With  soothing  pity  upon  mine. 


To  sit  and  curb  the  soul's  mute  rage 
Which  preys  upon  itself  alone; 

To  curse  the  life  which  is  the  cage 

Of  fettered  grief  that  dares  not  groan, 


486 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Hiding  from  many  a  careless  eye 
The  scorned  load  of  agony. 

in. 

Whilst  thou  alone,  then  not  regarded, 
The  thou  alone  should  be, 

To  spend  years  thus,  and  be  rewarded, 
As  thou,  sweet  love,  requited  me 

When  none  were  near  —  Oh  !  I  did  wake 

From  torture  for  that  moment's  sake. 


IV. 


Upon  my  heart  thy  accents  sweet 
Of  peace  and  pity  fell  like  dew 

On  flowers  half  dead;—  thy  lips  did  meet 
Mine  tremblingly;  thy  dark  eyes  threw 

Their  soft  persuasion  on  my  brain, 

Charming  away  its  dream  of  pain. 


We  are  not  happy,  sweet !  our  state 
Is  strange  and  full  of  doubt  and  fear; 

More  need  of  words  that  ills  abate;  — 
Reserve  or  censure  come  not  near 

Our  sacred  friendship,  lest  there  be 

No  solace  left  for  thee  and  me. 


VI. 


Gentle  and  good  and  mild  thou  art, 
Nor  can  I  live  if  thou  appear 

Aught  but  thyself,  or  turn  thine  heart 
Away  from  me,  or  stoop  to  wear 

The  mask  of  scorn,  altho'  it  be 

To  hide  the  love  thou  feel'st  for  me. 


TO 

Yet  look  on  me  —  take  not  thine  eyes 
away, 
Which  feed  upon  the  love  within  mine 
own, 
Which  is  indeed  but  the  reflected  ray 
Of  thine   own   beauty   from   my  spirit 

thrown. 
Yet  speak  to  me  —  thy  voice  is  as  the 
tone 
Of  my  heart's  echo,  and  I  think  I  hear 
That    thou   yet    lovest    me;    yet    thou 
alone 


Like  one  before  a  mirror,  without  care 

Of  aught  but  thine  own  features,  imaged 
there; 

And    yet    I    wear    out    life  in  watching 
thee ; 
A  toil  so  sweet  at  times,  and  thou  in- 
deed 

Art  kind  when  I  am  sick,  and  pity  me. 


MUTABILITY. 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight 
moon; 
How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam, 
and  quiver, 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly  !  —  yet 
soon 
Night  closes  round,  and  they  are  lost 
forever; 

Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  dissonant 
strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying 
blast, 
To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  motion 
brings 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last. 

We  rest.     A  dream   has   power   to   poi- 
son sleep; 
We     rise.     One    wandering    thought 
pollutes  the  day; 
We  feel,   conceive  or  reason,   laugh  or 
weep ; 
Embrace  fond  woe    or   cast  our  cares 
away: 

It  is  the  same  !     For,  be  it  joy  or  sorrow, 
The  path  of  its  departure  still  is  free: 

Man's  yesterday  may  ne'er  be  like  his 
morrow; 
Naught  may  endure  but  Mutability. 


ON   DEATH. 

There  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowl- 
edge, NOR  WISDOM,    IN  THE  GRAVE,  WHITHER 

thou  goest.  Ecclesiastes. 

The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony  smile 
Which  the  meteor  beam  of  a  starless 
night 


EARLY  POEMS. 


487 


Sheds  on  a  lonely  and  sea-girt  isle, 
Ere  the  dawning  of  morn's  undoubted 

light, 
Is  the  flame  of  life  so  fickle  and  wan 
That  flits  round  our  steps  till  their  strength 

is  gone. 

O  man  !  hold  thee  on  in  courage  of  soul 
Thro'  the  stormy  shades  of  thy  worldly 
way. 
And  the   billows  of    cloud    that    around 
thee  roll 
Shall  sleep  in  the  light  of  a  wondrous 
day, 
Where  hell  and  heaven  shall  leave    thee 

.      free 
To  the  universe  of  destiny. 

This  world  is  the  nurse  of  all  we  know, 
This  world  is  the  mother  of  all  we  feel, 

And  the  coming  of  death  is  a  fearful  blow 
To   a  brain  unencompast  with  nerves 
of  steel; 

When  all  that  we  know,  or  feel,  or  see, 

Shall  pass  like  an  unreal  mystery. 

The  secret  things  of  the  grave  are  there, 
Where  all  but  this  frame  must  surely 
be, 
Tho'     the     fine-wrought     eye    and    the 
wondrous  ear 
No  longer  will  live  to  hear  or  to  see 
All  that  is  great  and  all  that  is  strange 
In    the    boundless    realm    of    unending 
change. 

Who  telleth  a  tale  of  unspeaking  death? 
Who  lifteth  the  veil  of  what  is  to  come? 
Who  painteth  the  shadows  that  are  be- 
neath 
The  wide-winding  caves  of  the  peopled 
tomb? 
Or  uniteth  the  hopes  of  what  shall  be 
With  the  fears    and    the    love    for    that 
which  we  see? 

A   SUMMER   EVENING    CHURCH- 
YARD. 

Lechlade,  Gloucestershire. 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  at- 
mosphere 


Each  vapor  that   obscured  the   sunset's 

ray; 
And  pallid  Evening  twines  its  beaming 

hair 
In    duskier    braids    around    the    languid 

eyes  of  Day : 
Silence  and  Twilight,  unbeloved  of  men, 
Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest 

glen. 

They  breathe  their  spells  towards  the  de- 
parting day, 

Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars,  and 
sea; 

Light,  sound,  and  motion  own  the  potent 
sway, 

Responding  to  the  charm  with  its  own 
mystery. 

The  winds  are  still,  or  the  dry  church- 
tower  grass 

Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they 
pass. 

Thou  too,  aerial  Pile  !  whose  pinnacles 
Point  from  one  shrine  like  pyramids  of 

fire, 
Obeyest  in  silence    their    sweet    solemn 

spells, 
Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and 

distant  spire, 
Around    whose    lessening    and    invisible 

height 
Gather  among   the  stars  the    clouds    of 

night. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres  : 

And,  mouldering  as  they  sleep,  a  thrill- 
ing sound 

Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the 
darkness  stirs, 

Breathed  from  their  wormy  beds  all  liv- 
ing things  around, 

And  mingling  with  the  still  night  and 
mute  sky 

Its  awful  hush  is  felt  inaudibly. 

Thus  solemnized  and   softened,  death  is 

mild 
And  terrorless  as  this  serenest  night: 
Here  could  I  hope,  like   some    inquiring 

child 
Sporting  on  graves,  that  death  did  hide 

from  human  sight 


488 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Sweet  secrets,  or    beside    its    breathless 

sleep 
That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did 

keep. 

TO   COLERIDGE. 

AAKPY2I  AIOI20  IIOTMON  'AIIOTMON- 

Oh  !  there  are  spirits  of  the  air, 
And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 

And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 
As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees:  — 

Such  lovely  ministers  to  meet 

Oft  hast  thou  turned  from  men  thy  lonely 
feet. 

With    mountain    winds,     and    babbling 
springs, 
And  moonlight  seas,  that  are  the  voice 
Of  these  inexplicable  things 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 
When  they  did  answer  thee;  but  they 
Cast,    like  a    worthless    boon,   thy    love 
away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 
Beams    that    were    never    meant    for 
thine, 
Another's  wealth: — tame  sacrifice 

To  a  fond  faith  !  still  dost  thou  pine? 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands, 
Voice,   looks,    or  lips,  may  answer  thy 
demands? 

Ah !  wherefore   didst    thou    build    thine 
hope 
On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy? 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 

Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee? 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal    the   power  to  wind  thee  in 
their  wiles. 

Yes.  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 
Whose    falsehood    left    thee     broken- 
hearted; 
The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead; 

Night's  ghosts  and  dreams  have   now 
departed; 
Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee, 
But     changed    to    a     foul    fiend     thro' 
misery. 


This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 
Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs, 

Dream  not  to  chase;  —  the  mad   endea- 
vor 
Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 

Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  settled  fate, 

Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate. 

TO   WORDSWORTH. 

Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 
That    things    depart    which    never    may 

return : 
Childhood    and    youth,    friendship    and 

love's  first  glow, 
Have    fled    like    sweet    dreams,    leaving 

thee  to  mourn. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is 

mine 
Which   thou  too   feel'st,  yet  I  alone   de- 
plore. 
Thou  wert   as   a   lone   star,  whose   light 

did  shine 
On  some  frail    bark  in  winter's  midnight 

roar: 
Thou    hast    like    to   a   rock-built    refuge 

stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude: 
In  honored  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty,  — 
Deserting     these,    thou     leavest    me     to 

grieve, 
Thus    having   been,  that    thou    shouldst 

cease  to  be.    " 


FEELINGS  OF  A  REPUBLICAN 
ON  THE  FALL  OF  BONAPARTE. 

I  HATED  thee,  fallen  tyrant  !   I  did  groan 

To  think  that  a  most  unambitious  slave, 

Like  thou,  shouldst  dance  and  revel  on 
the  grave 

Of  Liberty.  Thcu  mightst  have  built 
thy  throne 

Where  it  had  stood  even  now :  thou 
didst  prefer 

A  frail  and  bloody  pomp  which  time  has 
swept 

In  fragments  towards  oblivion.  Mas- 
sacre, 

For  this  I  prayed,  would  on  thy  sleep 
have  crept, 


NOTE    ON   THE   EARLY    POEMS. 


489 


Treason  and  Slavery,  Rapine,  Fear,  and 

Lust, 
And  stifled  thee,  their  minister.     I  know 
Too  late,  since   thou  and   France  are  in 

the  dust, 
That  virtue  owns  a  more  eternal  foe 
Than   force  or  fraud:   old  Custom,  legal 

Crime, 
And  bloody   Faith   the   foulest   birth   of 

time. 

LINES. 
I. 

The  cold  earth  slept  below, 
•    Above  the  cold  sky  shone; 
And  all  around,  with  a  chilling  sound, 
From  caves  of  ice  and  fields  of  snow, 
The    breath   of    night    like    death   did 
flow 
Beneath  the  sinking  moon. 


The  wintry  hedge  was  black, 
The  green  grass  was  not  seen, 
The  birds  did  rest   on   the   bare   thorn's 
breast, 
Whose  roots,  beside  the  pathway  track, 
Had   bound   their    folds   o'er   many  a 
crack, 
Which  the  frost  had  made  between. 


Thine  eyes  glowed  in  the  glare 
Of  the  moon's  dying  light; 
As  a  fen-fire's  beam  on  a  sluggish  stream, 
Gleams     dimly,    so    the    moon    shone 

there, 
And    it    yellowed    the    strings    of   thy 
raven  hair, 
That  shook  in  the  wind  of  night. 


The    moon    made    thy   lips    pale,    be- 
loved — 
The  wind  made  thy  bosom  chill  — 
The  night  did  shed  on  thy  dear  head 
Its  frozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked 
sky 
Might  visit  thee  at  will. 


NOTE  ON  THE  EARLY  POEMS,  BY 
MRS.  SHELLEY. 

The  remainder  of  Shelley's  Poems 
will  be  arranged  in  the  order  in  which 
they  were  written.  Of  course,  mistakes 
will  occur  in  placing  some  of  the  shorter 
ones;  for,  as  I  have  said,  many  of  these 
were  thrown  aside,  and  I  never  saw  them 
till  I  had  the  misery  of  looking  over  his 
writings  after  the  hand  that  traced  them 
was  dust;  and  some  were  in  the  hands 
of  others,  and  I  never  saw  them  till  now. 
The  subjects  of  the  poems  are  often  to 
me  an  unerring  guide;  but  on  other  oc- 
casions I  can  only  guess,  by  finding  them 
in  the  pages  of  the  same  manuscript  book 
that  contains  poems  with  the  date  of 
whose  composition  I  am  fully  conversant. 
In  the  present  arrangement  all  his  poeti- 
cal translations  will  be  placed  together 
at  the  end. 

The  loss  of  his  early  papers  prevents 
my  being  able  to  give  any  of  the  poetry 
of  his  boyhood.  Of  the  few  I  give  as 
Early  roems,  the  greater  part  were  pub- 
lished with  Alas/or ;  some  of  them  were 
written  previously,  some  at  the  same 
period.  The  poem  beginning  "  Oh,  there 
are  spirits  in  the  air"  was  addressed  in 
idea  to  Coleridge,  whom  he  never  knew; 
and  at  whose  character  he  could  only 
guess  imperfectly,  through  his  writings, 
and  accounts  he  heard  of  him  from  some 
who  knew  him  well.  He  regarded  his 
change  of  opinions  as  rather  an  act  of 
will  than  conviction,  and  believed  that 
in  his  inner  heart  he  would  be  haunted 
by  what  Shelley  considered  the  belter  and 
holier  aspirations  of  his  youth.  The 
summer  evening  that  suggested  to  him 
the  poem  written  in  the  churchyard  of 
Lechlade  occurred  during  his  voyage  up 
the  Thames  in  18 15.  He  had  been  ad- 
vised by  a  physician  to  live  as  much  as 
possible  in  the  open  air;  and  a  fortnight 
of  a  bright  warm  July  was  spent  in  tra- 
cing the  Thames  to  its  source.  He  never 
spent  a  season  more  tranquilly  than  the 
summer  of  1S15.  He  had  just  recovered 
from  a  severe  pulmonary  attack;  the 
weather   was   warm   and   pleasant.      He 


49° 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1816. 


lived  near  Windsor  Forest;  and  his  life 
was  spent  under  its  shades  or  on  the  water, 
meditating  subjects  for  verse.  Hitherto, 
he  had  chiefly  aimed  at  extending  his  po- 
litical doctrines,  and  attempted  so  to  do 
by  appeals  in  prose  essays  to  the  people, 
exhorting  them  to  claim  their  rights;  but 
he  had  now  begun  to  feel  that  the  time 
for  action  was  not  ripe  in  England,  and 
that  the  pen  was  the  only  instrument 
wherewith  to  prepare  the  way  for  better 
things. 

In  the  scanty  journals  kept  during  those 
years  I  find  a  record  of  the  books  that 
Shelley  read  during  several  years.  Dur- 
ing.the  years  of  1814  and  1815  the  list  is 
extensive.  It  includes,  in  Greek,  Homer, 
Hesiod,  Theocritus,  the  histories  of  Thu- 
cydides  and  Herodotus,  and  Diogenes 
Laertius.  In  Latin,  Fetronius,  Sueto- 
nius, some  of  the  works  of  Cicero,  a  large 
proportion  of  those  of  Seneca  and  Livy. 
In  English,  Milton's  Poems,  Words- 
worth's "Excursion,"  Southey's  "Ma- 
doc"  and  "Thalaba,"  Locke  "On 
Human  Understanding,"  Bacon's  "No- 
vum Organum.  In  Italian,  Ariosto, 
Tasso,  and  Alfieri.  In  French,  the 
"  Reveries  d'un  Solitaire"  of  Rousseau. 
To  these  may  be  added  several  modern 
books  of  travels.      He  read  few  novels. 


POEMS  WRITTEN    IN    1816. 

THE  SUNSET. 

There  late  was  One  within  whose  subtle 

being, 
As  light  and  wind  within  some   delicate 

cloud 
That  fades  amid  the  blue  noon's  burning 

sky, 
Genius    and    death     contended.       None 

may  know 
The  sweetness  of  the  joy  which  made  his 

breath 
Fail,  like  the  trances  of   the  summer  air, 
When,  with  the   Lady  of  his   love,  who 

then 
First    knew    the    unreserve    of    mingled 

being, 
He  walked  along  the  pathway  of  a  field 


Which  to  the  east  a  hoar  wood  shadowed 

o'er, 
But  to  the  west  was  open  to  the  sky. 
There  now  the  sun  had   sunk,  but   lines 

of  gold 
Hung  on  the  ashen  clouds,  and  on  the 

points 
Of  the  far  level  grass  and  nodding  flowers 
And  the  old  dandelion's  hoary  beard, 
And,   mingled  with  the  shades  of    twi- 
light, lay   . 
On  the  brown  massy  woods;  —  and  in  the 

east 
The  broad  and  burning  moon  lingeringly 

rose 
Between  the  black  trunks  of  the  crowded 

trees, 
While    the    faint    stars    were    gathering 

overhead. — 
"Is    it    not    strange,   Isabel,"   said    the 

youth, 
"I  never  saw  the  sun?     We  will  walk 

here 
To-morrow;  thou  shalt   look  on  it  with 

me." 

That  night  the  youth  and  lady  mingled 
lay 

In  love  and  sleep  —  but  when  the  morn- 
ing came 

The  lady  found  her  lover  dead  and 
cold. 

Let  none  believe  that  God  in  mercy  gave 

That  stroke.  The  lady  died  not,  nor 
grew  wild, 

But  year  by  year  lived  on  —  in  truth  I 
think 

Her  gentleness  and  patience  and  sad 
smiles, 

And  that  she  did  not  die,  but  lived  to 
tend 

Her  aged  father,  were  a  kind  of  mad- 
ness, 

If  madness  't  is  to  be  unlike  the  world. 

For  but  to  see  her  were  to  read  the  tale 

Woven  by  some  subtlest  bard,  to  make 
hard  hearts 

Dissolve  away  in  wisdom-working 
grief;  — 

Her  eyes  were  black  and  lustreless  and 
wan : 

Her  eyelashes  were  worn  away  with 
tears, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1816. 


49] 


Her  lips  and    cheeks  were    like    things 

dead  —  so  pale; 
Her    hands  were  thin,   and    thro'   their 

wandering  veins 
And  weak  articulations  might  be  seen 
Day's   ruddy  light.      The   tomb    of    thy 

dead  self 
Which  one  vext    ghost    inhabits,    night 

and  day, 
Is  all,   lost  child,   that  now   remains  of 

thee! 

"Inheritor  of    more    than    earth    can 

give, 
Passionless  calm  and  silence  unreproved, 
Whether  the  dead  find,  oh,  not  sleep  ! 

but  rest, 
And  are  the  uncomplaining  things  they 

seem, 
Or    live,    or    drop    in    the    deep    sea   of 

Love; 
Oh,    that   like   thine,  mine   epitaph  were 

—  Peace  !  " 
This  was  the  only  moan  she  ever  made. 

HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY. 

1. 
The    awful     shadow    of     some     unseen 
Power 
Floats    tho'     unseen    amongst    us,  — 

visiting 
This  various  world  with  as   inconstant 
wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower 

to  flower,  — 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny 
mountain  shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening,  — -    | 
Like     clouds    in     starlight    widely  | 

spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled,  — 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

II. 
Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With  thine  own    hues    all    thou    dost 
shine  upon 


Of  human  thought  or  form,  —  where 
art  thou  gone? 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our 

state, 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and 
desolate? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain 
river, 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once 
is  shown, 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and 

birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  —  why  man  has  such  a 
scope 
For    love    and    hate,    despondency   and 
hope? 


No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath 
ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  — 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost, 
and  Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor, 
Frail  spells  —  whose  uttered  charm  might 
not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone  - —  like   mist   o'er  moun- 
tains driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent, 
Thro'    strings  of    some  still  instru- 
ment, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet 
dream. 


Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds 
depart 
And    come,   for    some    uncertain    mo- 
ments lent, 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou 

art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state 
within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes  — 
Thou —  that  to  human  thought  art  nour- 
ishment, 


49^ 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1816. 


Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not — lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 


While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and 
sped 
Thro'  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave 

and  ruin, 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps 
pursuing 
Hopes  of  high    talk  with    the    departed 

dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which 
our  youth  is  fed; 
I  was  not  heard  —  I  saw  them  not  — 
When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,   at   the  sweet   time  when  winds 
are  wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 
Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me; 
I     shriekt,     and    claspt    my    hands    in 
ecstasy  ! 

VI. 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  pow- 
ers 
To  thee  and  thine  —  have  I   not   kept 

the  vow? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes, 
even  now. 
I  call  the  phantoms  of   a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave  :  they  have 
in  visioned  bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatcht    with    me     the    envious 
night  — 
They  know   that   never  joy  illumed  my 
brow 
Unlinkt  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst 

free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 
That  thou  — O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  can- 
not express. 


The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  se- 
rene 
When    noon   is  past — there   is  a  har- 
mony 


In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  thro'  the  summer  is  not  heard  or 

seen, 
As  if  it   could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not 
been  ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the 

truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 
Its  calm  —  to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,    Spirit   fair,   thy   spells  did 
bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


MONT   BLANC. 

LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE   VALE   OF 
CHAMOUNI. 


The  everlasting  universe  of  things 
Flows  thro'  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid 

waves, 
Now    dark  —  now    glittering — now    re- 
flecting gloom  — 
Now  lending  splendor,  where  from  secret 

springs 
The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute 

brings 
Of  waters,  —  with  a  sound  but  half  its 

own, 
Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 
In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains 

lone, 
Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  for  ever, 
Where  woods   and  winds   contend,  and  a 

vast  river 
Over    its    rocks    ceaselessly    bursts    and 

raves. 


Thus  thou,  Ravine  of  Arve  —  dark,  deep 

Ravine  — 
Thou  many-colored,  many-voiced  vale, 
Over  whose  pines,  and  crags,  and  caverns 

sail 
Fast  cloud-shadows  and  sunbeams:  awful 

scene, 
Where    Tower    in    likeness   of  the   Arve 

comes  down 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1816. 


493 


From  the  ice  gulfs  that  gird  his  secret 
throne, 

Bursting  thro'  these  dark  mountains  like 
the  flame 

Of  lightning  thro'  the  tempest; — thou 
dost  lie, 

Thy  giant  brood  of  pines  around  thee 
clinging, 

Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devo- 
tion 

The  chainless  winds  still  come  and  ever 
came 

To  drink  their  odors,  and  their  mighty 
swinging 

To  hear  —  an  old  and  solemn  harmony; 

Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretcht  across 
the  sweep 

Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  veil 

Robes  some  unsculptured  image;  the 
strange  sleep 

Which  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail 

Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity;  — 

Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Arve's  com- 
motion, 

A  loud,  lone  sound  no  other  sound  can 
tame; 

Thou  art  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless 
motion. 

Thou  art  the  path  of  that  unresting 
sound  — 

Dizzy  Ravine  !   and  when  I  gaze  on  thee 

I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 

To  muse  on  my  own  separate  fantasy, 

My  own,  my  human  mind,  which  pas- 
sively 

Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influen- 
cings, 

Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 

With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around; 

One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,  whose  wan- 
dering wings 

Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and  now 
rest 

Where  that  or  thou  art  no  unbidden 
guest, 

In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 

Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by 

Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade 
of  thee, 

Some  phantom,  some  faint  image;  till 
the  breast 

From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou 
art  there  ! 


ill. 


Some    say    that    gleams    of    a    remoter 

world 
Visit  the  soul   in   sleep,  —  that  death  is 

slumber, 
And   that   its   shapes  the  busy   thoughts 

outnumber 
Of  those   who  wake   and   live.  —  I  look 

on  high; 
Has  some  unknown  omnipotence  unfurled 
The  veil  of  life  or  death?  or  do  I  lie 
In  dream,  and  does  the   mightier  world 

of  sleep 
Spread  far  around  and  inaccessibly 
Its  circles?     For  the  very  spirit  fails, 
Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep 
to  steep 
j  That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales  ! 
I   Far,  far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky, 
Mont  Blanc  appears,  — still,  snowy,  and 

serene  — 
Its    subject    mountains    their    unearthly 

forms 
Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock;   broad  vales 

between 
Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps, 
'   Blue    as    the    overhanging   heaven,  that 

spread 
j  And  wind  among  the  accumulated  steeps; 

A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone, 
I   Save  when  the  eagle   brings  some  hunt- 
er's bone, 
!  And    the    wolf    tracks    her   there  —  how 

hideously 
j   Its  shapes  are  heapt  around!   rude,  bare, 

and  high, 
!  Ghastly,    and    scarred,    and    riven.  —  Is 

this  the  scene 
i   Where  the  old  Earthquake-daemon  taught 

her  young 
j   Ruin?     Were  these  their  toys?  or  did  a 
sea 
Of  fire,  envelop  once  this  silent  snow? 
j  None  can  reply  —  all  seems  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 
Which   teaches   awful  doubt,  or  faith  so 

mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 
But    for    such   faith  with   Nature    recon- 
ciled; 
Thou    hast   a  voice,  great   Mountain,  to 
repeal 


494 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1816. 


Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe;  not  un- 
derstood 

By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and  great, 
and  good 

Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 

IV. 

The  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests,  and  the 

streams, 
Ocean,    and    all    the    living    things    that 

dwell 
Within   the   daedal   earth;    lightning  and 

rain, 
Earthquake,    and   fiery  flood,  and  hurri- 
cane, 
The     torpor    of    the    year   when    feeble 

dreams 
Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 
Holds    every  future  leaf   and    flower  ;  — 

the  bound 
With    which    from  that  detested    trance 

they  leap; 
The  works  and  ways  of  man,    their  death 

and  birth, 
And  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be; 
All   things   that   move   and  breathe  with 

toil  and  sound 
Are  born  and   die;  revolve,  subside,  and 

swell. 
Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity 
Remote,  serene,  and  inaccessible: 

And  this,  the  naked    countenance    of 

earth, 
On  which  I  gaze,   even  these    primeval 

mountains 
Teach  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers 

creep 
Like  snakes  that  watch  their  prey,  from 

their  far  fountains, 
Slow  rolling  on;  there,  many  a  precipice, 
Frost   and   the   Sun   in   scorn  of    mortal 

power 
Have  piled:  dome,  pyramid,  and  pinna- 
cle, 
A   city    of   death,    distinct    with   many  a 

tower 
And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 
Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of   ruin 
Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the 

sky 
Rolls  its  perpetual  stream;  vast  pines  are 

strewing 


Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil 

Branchless  and  shattered  stand;  the 
rocks,  drawn  down 

From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  over- 
thrown 

The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world, 

Never  to  be  reclaimed.  The  dwelling- 
place 

Of  insects,  beasts,  and  birds,  becomes 
its  spoil; 

Their  food  and  their  retreat  for  ever 
gone, 

So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost.  The 
race 

Of  man,  flies  far  in  dread;  his  work  and 
dwelling 

Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's 
stream, 

And  their  place  is  not  known.  Below, 
vast  caves 

Shine  in  the  rushing  torrents'  restless 
gleam. 

Which  from  those  secret  chasms  a  tu- 
mult welling 

Meet  in  the  vale,  and  one  majestic  River, 

The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lands, 
forever 

Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean  waves, 

Breathes  its  swift  vapors  to  the  circling 
air. 


Mont  Blanc    yet  gleams  on  high: — the 

power  is  there, 
The   still    and    solemn    power    of    many 

sights, 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and 

death. 
In  the   calm   darkness    of   the    moonless 

nights. 
In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the   snows  de- 
scend 
Upon  that  Mountain;  none  beholds  them 

there, 
Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking 

sun, 
Or    the   star-beams   dart   thro'  them:  — 

Winds  contend 
Silently  there,  and   heap   the   snow  with 

breath 
Rapid  and  strong,  but  silently  !    Its  home 
The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 


NOTE    ON  POEMS  OF  1816. 


495 


Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of 

things 

Which  governs  thought,  and  to   the  in- 
finite dome 

Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee  ! 

And  what  were    thou,    and    earth,    and 
stars,  and  sea, 

If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 

Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy? 
July  23,  1816. 

CANCELLED   PASSAGE   OF  MONT 
BLANC. 

There  is  a  voice,  not  understood  by  all, 
Sent  from  these  desert-caves.     It  is   the 

roar 
Of  the  rent  ice-cliff  which  the  sunbeams 

call, 
Plunging  into  the  vale  —  it  is  the  blast 
Descending  on   the   pines  —  the   torrents 

pour.    .   .   . 

FRAGMENT:  HOME. 

Dear  home,  thou  scene  of  earliest  hopes 

and  joys, 
The    least    of    which    wronged    Memory 

ever  makes 
Bitterer    than    all    thine    unremembered 

tears. 

FRAGMENT:    HELEN    AND 
HENRY. 

A  shovel  of  his  ashes  took 
From  the  hearth's  obscurest  nook, 
Muttering  mysteries  as  she  went. 
Helen  and  Henry  knew  that  Granny 
Was  as  much  afraid  of  ghosts  as  any, 

And  so  they  followed  hard  — 
But  Helen  clung  to  her  brother's  arm, 
And  her  own  spasm  made  her  shake. 

NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  18 16,  BY 
MRS.  SHELLEY. 

Shelley  wrote  little  during  this  year. 
The  poem  entitled  "  The  Sunset"  was 
written  in  the  Spring  of  the  year,  while 
still  residing  at  Bishopgate.  He  spent 
the  summer  on  the  shores  of  the  Lake  of 


Geneva.  "The  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty  "  was  conceived  during  his  voy< 
age  round  the  lake  with  Lord  Byron. 
He  occupied  himself  during  this  voyage 
reading  the  "  Nouvelle  Heloi'se  "  for  the 
first  time.  The  reading  it  on  the  very 
spot  where  the  scenes  are  laid  added  to 
the  interest;  and  he  was  at  once  surprised 
and  charmed  by  the  passionate  eloquence 
and  earnest  enthralling  interest  that  per- 
vade this  work.  There  was  something  in 
the  character  of  Saint-Preux,  in  his  ab- 
negation of  self,  and  in  the  worship  he 
paid  to  Love,  that  coincided  with  Shel- 
ley's own  disposition;  and,  though  dif- 
fering in  many  of  the  views  and  shocked 
by  others,  yet  the  effect  of  the  whole 
was  fascinating  and  delightful. 

"  Mont  Blanc  "  was  inspired  by  a  view 
of  that  mountain  and  its  surrounding 
peaks  and  valleys,  as  he  lingered  on  the 
Bridge  of  Arve  on  his  way  through  the 
Valley  of  Chamouni.  Shelley  makes  the 
following  mention  of  this  poem  in  his 
publication  of  the  "History  of  Six 
Weeks'  Tour,  and  Letters  from  Switzer- 
land "  :  "The  poem  entitled  "Mont 
Blanc"  is  wrttten  by  the  author  of  the 
two  letters  from  Chamouni  and  Vevai. 
It  was  composed  under  the  immediate 
impression  of  the  deep  and  powerful 
feelings  excited  by  the  objects  which  it 
attempts  to  describe;  and,  as  an  undis- 
ciplined overflowing  of  the  soul,  rests  its 
claim  to  approbation  on  an  attempt  to 
imitate  the  untamable  wildness  and  inac- 
cessible solemnity  from  which  those  feel- 
ings sprang." 

This  was  an  eventful  year,  and  less  time 
was  given  to  study  than  usual.  In  the 
list  of  his  reading  I  find,  in  Greek,  Theo- 
critus, the  "  Prometheus  "  of  ^Eschylus, 
several  of  Plutarch's  Lives'  and  the 
works  of  Lucian.  In  Latin,  Lucretius, 
Pliny's  Letters,  the  "Annals"  and 
"  Germany  "  of  Tacitus.  In  French,  the 
"  History  of  the  French  Revolution  "  by 
Lacretelle.  He  read  for  the  first  time, 
this  year,  Montaigne's  Essays,  and  re- 
garded them  ever  after  as  one  of  the 
most  delightful  and  instructive  books  in 
the  world.  The  list  is  scanty  in  English 
works:    Locke's  Essay,    "  Political    Jus- 


496 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1S17. 


tice,"  and  Coleridge's  "  Lay  Sermon," 
form  nearly  the  whole.  It  was  his  fre- 
quent habit  to  read  aloud  to  me  in  the 
evening;  in  this  way  we  read,  this  year, 
the  New  Testament,  "Paradise  Lost," 
Spenser's  "Faery  Queen,"  and  "Don 
Quixote." 

POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1817. 
MARIANNE'S   DREAM. 


A  pale  dream  came  to  a  Lady  fair, 
And  said,  "  A  boon,  a  boon,  I  pray  ! 

I  know  the  secrets  of  the  air, 

And  things  are  lost  in  the  glare  of  day, 

Which  I  can  make  the  sleeping  see, 

If  they  will  put  their  trust  in  me. 


And  thou  shalt  know  of  things  unknown, 
If  thou  wilt  let  me  rest  between 

The  veiny  lids,  whose  fringe  is  thrown 
Over  thine  eyes  so  dark  and  sheen:  " 

And  half  in  hope,  and  half  in  fright, 

The  Lady  closed  her  eyes  so  bright. 


At  first  all  deadly  shapes  were  driven 
Tumultuously  across  her  sleep, 

And  o'er  the  vast  cope  of  bending  heaven 
All  ghastly-visaged  clouds  did  sweep; 

And  the  Lady  ever  looked  to  spy 

If  the  golden  sun  shone  forth  on  high. 


IV. 


And  as  towards  the  east  she  turned, 
She  saw  aloft  in  the  morning  air, 

Which  now  with  hues  of  sunrise  burned, 
A  great  black  Anchor  rising  there; 

And  wherever  the  Lady  turned  her  eyes, 

It  hung  before  her  in  the  skies. 


The  sky  was  blue  as  the  summer  sea, 
The  depths  were  cloudless  overhead, 

The  air  was  calm  as  it  could  be, 

There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  dread, 


But  that  black  Anchor  floating  still 
Over  the  piny  eastern  hill. 


The  Lady  grew  sick  with  a  weight  of  fear, 

To  see  that  Anchor  ever  hanging, 
And  veiled  her  eyes;    she  then  did  hear 
The  sound  as  of  a  dim  low  clanging, 
And  looked  abroad  if  she  might  know 
Was  it  aught  else,  or  but  the  flow 
Of  the  blood  in  her  own  veins,  to  and  fro. 


There  was  a  mist  in  the  sunless  air, 
Which  shook  as  it  were  with  an  earth- 
quake's shock, 

But  the  very  weeds  that  blossomed  there 
Were  moveless,  and  each  mighty  rock 

Stood  on  its  basis  steadfastly; 

The  Anchor  was  seen  no  more  on  high. 


But  piled  around,  with  summits  hid 
In  lines  of  cloud  at  intervals, 

Stood  many  a  mountain  pyramid 
Among  whose  everlasting  walls 

Two  mighty  cities  shone,  and  ever 

Thro'    the    red    mist    their    domes     did 
quiver. 


On    two   dread    mountains,    from   whose 
crest, 

Might  seem,  the  eagle,  for  her  brood, 
Would  ne'er  have  hung  her  dizzy  nest, 

Those  tower-encircled  cities  stood. 
A  vision  strange  such  towers  to  see, 
Sculptured  and  wrought  so  gorgeously, 
Where  human  art  could  never  be. 


And  columns  framed  of  marble  white. 

And  giant  fanes,  dome  over  dome 
Piled,  and  triumphant  gates,  all  bright 

With    workmanship,  which    could   not 
come 
From  touch  of  mortal  instrument 
Shot  o'er  the  vales,  or  lustre  lent 
From  its  own  shapes  magnificent. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1817. 


497 


But  still  the  Lady  heard  that  clang 

Filling  the  wide  air  far  away; 
And  still  the  mist  whose  light  did  hang 

Among  the  mountains  shook  alway 
So  that  the  Lady's  heart  beat  fast, 
As  half  in  joy,  and  half  aghast, 
On  those  high  domes  her  look  she  cast. 


Sudden,  from  out  that  city  sprung 

A  light  that  made  the  earth  grow  red; 

Two    flames    that    each    with    quivering 
tongue 
Licked  its  high  domes,  and  overhead 

Among  those  mighty  towers  and  fanes 

Dropt  Are,  as  a  volcano  rains 

Its  sulphurous  ruin  on  the  plains. 


And  hark  !  a  rush  as  if  the  deep 

Had  burst  its  bonds;   she    lookt    be- 
hind 
And  saw  over  the  western  steep 

A  raging  flood  descend,  and  wind 
Thro'  that  wild  vale;    she  felt  no  fear, 
But  said  within  herself,  'Tis  clear 
These  towers  are  Nature's  own,  and  she 
To  save  them  has  sent  forth  the  sea. 


And  now  those  raging  billows  came 
Where  that  fair  Lady  sate,  and  she 

Was  borne  towards  the  showering  flame 
By   the    wild   waves     heapt     tumultu- 
ously 

And  on  a  little  plank,  the  flow 

Of  the  whirlpool  bore  her  to  and  fro. 


The  flames  were  fiercely  vomited 
From  every  tower  and  every  dome, 

And  dreary  light  did  widely  shed 

O'er  that  vast  flood's  suspended  foam, 

Beneath  the  smoke  which  hung  its  night 

On  the  stained  cope  of  heaven's  light. 


The  plank  whereon  the  lady  sate 

Was   driven  thro'  the    chasms,   about 
and  about, 


Between  the  peaks  so  desolate 

Of    the    drowning    mountains,    in    and 

out, 
As    the    thistle-beard    on    a    whirlwind 

sails  — 
While  the  flood  was  filling  those  hollow 

vales. 


At  last  her  plank  an  eddy  crost, 
And  bore  her  to  the  city's  wall, 

Which  now  the  flood  had  reacht  almost; 
It  might  the  stoutest  heart  appal 

To  hear  the  fire  roar  and  hiss 

Thro'     the     domes     of     those     mighty 
palaces. 


The  eddy  whirled  her  round  and  round 
Before  a  gorgeous  gate,  which  stood 

Piercing    the    clouds    of    smoke    which 
bound 
Its  aery  arch  with  light  like  blood; 

She  lookt  on  that  gate  of  marble  clear 

With  wonder  that  extinguisht  fear. 


For  it  was  filled  with  sculptures  rarest, 
Of  forms  most  beautiful  and  strange, 

Like  nothing  human,  but  the  fairest 
Of  winged  shapes,  whose  legions  range 

Throughout  the  sleep  of  those  that  are, 

Like  this  same  Lady,  good  and  fair. 


And  as  she  lookt,  still  lovelier  grew 
Those    marble    forms;— the    sculptor 
sure 
Was  a  strong  spirit,  and  the  hue 

Of  his  own  mind  did  there  endure 
After  the  touch,  whose  power  had  braided 
Such    grace,    was    in    some    sad    change 
faded. 


She    lookt,    the     flames    were    dim,    the 
flood 
Grew  tranquil  as  a  woodland  river 
Winding  thro'  hills  in  solitude; 


♦98 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  1817. 


Those  marble  shapes  then  seemed  to 
quiver 
And  their  fair  limbs  to  float  in  motion, 
Like  weeds  unfolding  in  the  ocean. 


And  their  lips  moved  ;    one  seemed  to 
speak, 
When  suddenly  the  mountains  crackt, 
And    thro'    the    chasm    the     flood     did 
break 
With  an  earth-uplifting  cataract: 
The  statues  gave  a  joyous  scream, 
And  on  its  wings  the  pale  thin  dream 
Lifted  the  Lady  from  the  stream. 


The  dizzy  flight  of  that  phantom  pale 
Waked  the  fair  Lady  from  her  sleep, 

And  she  arose,  while  from  the  veil 

Of  her  dark  eyes  the  dream  did  creep, 

And  she  walkt  about  as  one  who  knew 

That  sleep  has  sights  as  clear  and  true 

As  any  waking  eyes  can  view. 


TO   CONSTANTIA,    SINGING. 


Thus    to  be   lost  and   thus   to  sink  and 
die, 
Perchance  were  death  indeed  !  —  Con- 
stantia,  turn  ! 
In  thy  dark  eyes  a  power  like  light  doth 
lie, 
Even  tho'  the  sounds  which  were  thy 
voice,  which  burn 
Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep; 
Within   thy   breath,   and   on   thy  hair, 
like  odor  it  is  yet, 
And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  doth  leap. 
Even  while  I  write,  my  burning  cheeks 
are  wet, 
Alas,  that  the  torn  heart   can   bleed,  but 
not  forget ! 


A  breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change 
Unseen,  but  felt  in  youthful  slumbers, 
Wild,  sweet,  hut  uncommunicably  strange, 


Thou  breathest  now  in  fast  ascending 
numbers. 
The    cope    of    heaven    seems    rent    and 
cloven 
By  the  enchantment  of  thy  strain, 
And  on  my  shoulders  wings  are  woven, 

To  follow  its  sublime  career, 
Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 
Upon    the    verge    of    nature's   utmost 

sphere, 
Till  the  world's  shadowy  walls  are  past 
and  disappear. 


ill. 


Her  voice  is  hovering  o'er  my  soul  —  it 
lingers 
O'ershadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling 
wings, 
The  blood  and  life  within  those  snowy 
fingers 
Teach  witchcraft   to  the  instrumental 
strings. 
My    brain    is    wild,    my   breath    comes 
quick  — 
The  blood  is  listening  in  my  frame, 
And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick, 

Fall  on  my  overflowing  eyes; 
My  heart  is  quivering  like  a  flame; 
As  morning  dew,  that  in  the  sunbeam 

dies, 
I    am    dissolved    in   these    consuming 
ecstasies. 


I  have  no  life,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee, 
Whilst,  like  the  world-surrounding  air, 
thy  song 
Flows  on,  and  fills  all  things  with  mel- 
ody. — 
Now  is  thy  voice  a  tempest   swift   and 
strong, 
On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne, 

Secure  o'er  rocks  and  waves  I  sweep, 
Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn. 

Now  't  is  the  breath  of  summer  night, 
Which  when  the  starry  waters  sleep, 
Round    western    isles,    with     incense- 
blossoms  bright, 
Lingering,    suspends   my    soul     in   its 
'     voluptuous  flight. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1S17. 


499 


TO   CONSTANTIA. 


The  rose  that  drinks  the  fountain  dew 

In  the  pleasant  air  of  noon, 
Grows  pale  and  blue  with  altered  hue  — 

In  the  gaze  of  the  nightly  moon; 
For    the    planet    of  frost,    so    cold    and 

bright, 
Makes  it  wan  with  her  borrowed  light. 


Such  is  my  heart  —  roses  are  fair, 

And  that  at  best  a  withered  blossom; 

But  thy  false  care  did  idly  wear 

Its  withered  leaves  in  a  faithless  bosom; 

And  fed  with  love,  like  air  and  dew, 

Its  growth 


FRAGMENT  :    TO   ONE   SINGING. 

My  spirit  like  a  charmed  bark  doth  swim 
Upon  the  liquid  waves  of    thy  sweet 
singing, 
Far  away  into  the  regions  dim 

Of     rapture — as    a    boat,    with    swift 
sails  winging 
Its  way  adown  some  many-winding  river. 


A   FRAGMENT:    TO    MUSIC. 

Silver  key  of  the  fountain  of  tears, 
Where  the  spirit  drinks  till  the  brain 
is  wild ; 
Softest  grave  of  a  thousand  fears, 

Where     their     mother,    Care,    like     a 
drowsy  child, 
Is  laid  asleep  in  flowers. 


ANOTHER    FRAGMENT  TO 
MUSIC. 

No,  Music,   thou  art  not   the   "food  of 

Love," 
Unless  Love  feeds  upon  its  own  sweet 

self, 
Till  it  becomes  all  Music  murmurs  of. 


"MIGHTY   EAGLE." 

SUPPOSED    TO    RE    ADDRESSED   TO 
WILLIAM    GODWIN. 

Mighty  eagle  !  thou  that  soarest 
O'er  the  misty  mountain  forest 

And  amid  the  light  of  morning 
Like  a  cloud  of  glory  hiest, 
And  when  night  descends  defiest 

The  embattled  tempests'  warning ! 


TO   THE    LORD   CHANCELLOR. 


Thy  country's  curse  is  on  thee,  darkest 
crest 
Of  that    foul,  knotted,    many-headed 
worm 
Which    rends    our    Mother's    bosom  — 
Priestly  Pest ! 
Maskt  Resurrection  of  a  buried  Form  ! 


II. 

Thy  country's  curse  is  on  thee  !     Justice 
sold, 

Truth     trampled,    Nature's     landmarks 
overthrown, 

And  heaps  of  fraud-accumulated  gold, 
Plead,  loud    as    thunder,  at    Destruc- 
tion's throne. 


And,  whilst  that  sure  slow  Angel  which 
aye  stands 
Watching  the  beck  of  Mutability 
Delays  to  execute  her  high  commands, 
And,    tho'    a    nation     weeps,    spares 
thine  and  thee, 


O  let  a  father's  curse  be  on  thy  soul, 
And  let  a  daughter's  hope  be  on  thy 
tomb; 
Be  both,  on    thy  gray    head,    a    leaden 
cowl 
To  weigh  thee  down  to  thine  approach 
ing  doom ! 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1817. 


I  curse  thee  !    By  a  parent's  outraged  love, 
By  hopes  long  cherisht  and  too  lately 
lost, 
By    gentle    feelings    thou    couldst    never 
prove, 
By  griefs  which  thy  stern  nature  never 
crost ; 


By  those  infantine  smiles  of  happy  light, 
Which  were  a  fire  within  a  stranger's 
hearth, 
Quencht    even    when    kindled,     in    un- 
timely night, 
Hiding  the  promise  of  a  lovely  birth; 


By   those   unpractised  accents   of  young 
speech, 
Which   he  who  is  a  father  thought   to 
frame 
To    gentlest    lore,    such    as    the    wisest 
teach  — 
Thou  strike  the  lyre  of  mind  !     O  grief 
and  shame  ! 


By    all    the    happy    see    in     children's 
growth  — 
That    undevelopt    flower    of    budding 
years  — 
Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both, 
Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes  and  sad- 
dest fears  — 


By  all  the  days  under  an  hireling's  care, 
Of    dull    constraint   and   bitter    heavi- 
ness, — 
O  wretched  ye  if  ever  any  were, — 
Sadder  than  orphans,  yet  not  father- 
less ! 


By  the  false  cant   which   on  their  inno- 
cent lips 
Must  hang  like  poison  on  an  opening 
bloom, 


By   the    dark    creeds    which   cover    with 
eclipse 
Their  pathway  from  the   cradle  to  the 
tomb  — 


By  thy   most   impious    Hell,    and   all  its 
terror; 
By  all  the  grief,  the  madness,  and  the 
guilt 
Of    thine    impostures,    which    must    be 
their   error  — 
That    sand    on    which    thy    crumbling 
power  is  built  — 


By  thy  complicity  with  lust  and  hate  — 
Thy  thirst  for  tears  —  thy  hunger  after 
gold  — 
The    ready  frauds   which    ever    on    thee 
wait  — 
The    servile   arts   in   which    thou  hast 
grown  old  — 


By  thy   most  killing   sneer,   and  by  thy 
smile  — 
By  all  the  arts  and  snares  of  thy  black 
den, 
And  —  for  thou  canst  outweep  the  croco- 
dile — 
By  thy  false  tears  —  those   millstones 
braining  men  — 

XIV. 

By  all   the   hate  which   checks  a  father's 
love  — 
By  all   the  scorn  which   kills  a  father's 
care  — 
By  those  most  impious  hands  which  dared 
remove 
Nature's  high  bounds  — by  thee  —  and 
by  despair  — 

XV. 

Yes,    the    despair    which    bids    a    father 
groan, 
And  cry,  "  My  children  are  no  longer 
mine  — 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1817. 


501 


The    blood   within    those   veins    may   be 
mine  own, 
But  —  Tyrant  —  their    polluted    souls 
are  thine;  —  " 


I  curse  thee  —  though  I  hate  thee  not  — 
O  slave  ! 
If  thou  couldst  quench  the  earth-con- 
suming Hell 
Of  which  thou  art  a  daemon,  on  thy  grave 
This  curse  should  be  a  blessing.     Fare 
thee  well ! 


TO   WILLIAM    SHELLEY. 


The   billows   on  the   beach   are   leaping 

around  it, 
The  bark  is  weak  and  frail, 
The  sea  looks  black,  and  the  clouds  that 

bound  it 
Darkly  strew  the  gale. 
Come  with  me,  thou  delightful  child, 
Come  with  me,  tho'  the  wave  is  wild, 
And  the    winds   are   loose,  we   must   not 

stay, 
Or  the  slaves  of  the  law  may  rend  thee 

away. 


They  have  taken  thy  brother  and  sister 
dear, 
They  have  made  them  unfit  for  thee; 
They  have  withered  the  smile  and  dried 
the  tear 
Which  should  have  been  sacred  to  me. 
To  a  blighting  faith  and  a  cause  of  crime 
They  have  bound  them  slaves  in  youthly 

prime, 
And  they  will  curse  my  name  and  thee 
Because  we  are  fearless  and  free. 


Come  thou,  beloved  as  thou  art; 
Another  sleepeth  still 


Near  thy  sweet  mother's  anxious  heart, 

Which  thou  with  joy  shalt  fill, 
With  fairest  smiles  of  wonder  thrown 
On  that  which  is  indeed  our  own, 
And  which  in  distant  lands  will  be 
The  dearest  playmate  unto  thee. 


Fenr  not  the  tyrants  will  rule  for  ever, 

Or  the  priests  of  the  evil  faith : 
They  stand  on   the  brink  of  that  raging 

river, 
Whose  waves  they  have   tainted   with 

death. 
It  is  fed  from  the  depth  of  a  thousand 

dells, 
Around    them   it    foams   and    rages    and 

swells; 
And    their  swords    and    their    sceptres  I 

floating  see, 
Like  wrecks  on  the  surge  of  eternity. 


v. 

Rest,   rest,  and  shriek   not,   thou  gentle 
child  ! 
The  rocking  of  the  boat  thou  fearest, 
And    the    cold    spray    and    the    clamor 
wild  ?  — 
There  sit  between  us  two,  thou  dear- 
est — 
Me  and  thy  mother  —  well  we  know 
The  storm  at  which  thou  tremblest  so, 
With  all  its  dark  and  hungry  graves, 
Less  cruel  than  the  savage  slaves 
Who  hunt  us  o'er  these  sheltering  waveSc 


This  hour  will  in  thy  memory 

Be  a  dream  of  days  forgotten  long, 
We  soon  shall  dwell  by  the  azure  sea 
Of  serene  and  golden  Italy, 
Or  Greece,  the^Mother  of  the  free; 

And  I  will  teach  thine  infant  tongue 
To  call  upon  those  heroes  old 
In  their  own  language,  and  will  mould 
Thy  growing  spirit  in  the  flame 
Of  Grecian  lore,  that  by  such  name 
A  patriot's  birthright  thou  mayst  claim 


5°2 


POEMS    tVRITTEN  IN  1817. 


FROM     THE     ORIGINAL     DRAFT 

OF   THE   POEM   TO    WILLIAM 

SHELLEY. 

I. 

The  world  is  now  our  dwelling-place; 
Where'er  the  earth  one  fading  trace 

Of  what  was  great  and  free  does  keep, 
That  is  our  home  !   .   .   . 
Mild  thoughts  of  man's  ungentle  race 

Shall  our  contented  exile  reap; 
For  who  that  in  some  happy  place 
His  own  free  thoughts  can  freely  chase 
By  woods  and  waves  can  clothe  his  face 

In    cynic    smiles?      Child!     we    shall 
weep. 

11. 

This  lament, 
The  memory  of  thy  grievous  wrong 
Will  fade   .   .   . 
But  genius  is  omnipotent 
To  hallow   .   .   . 


ON   FANNY   GODWIN. 

Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted, 

Yet  knew  I  not  that  heart  was  broken 
From  which  it  came,  and  I  departed 
Heeding  not  the  words  then  spoken. 
Misery  —  O  Misery, 
This  world  is  all  too  wide  for  thee. 


LINES. 


That  time  is  dead  for  ever,  child, 
Drowned,  frozen,  dead  for  ever  ! 

We  look  on  the  past 

And  stare  aghast 
At  the  spectres  wailing,  pale  and  ghastj 
Of  hopes  which  thou  and  I  beguiled 

To  death  on  life's  dark  river. 


The  stream  we  gazed  on  then,  rolled  by; 
Its  waves  are  unreturning; 

But  we  yet  stand 

In  a  lone  land, 


Like  tombs  to  mark  the  memory 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  which  fade  and  flee 

In  the  light  of  life's  dim  morning. 


DEATH. 


They     die  —  the    dead    return    not  — 
Misery 
Sits  near  an  open  grave  and  calls  them 
over, 
A  Youth  with  hoary  hair  and  haggard 
eye  — 
They  are  the  names  of  kindred,  friend 
and  lover, 
Which  he   so  feebly  calls  —  they  all  are 

gone  ! 
Fond    wretch,    all     dead,    those    vacant 
names  alone, 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain  — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 


Misery,  my  sweetest  friend  —  oh!  weep 
no  more  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  be  consoled  —  I  wonder 
not! 
For  I  have  seen  thee  from  thy  dwelling's 
door 
Watch  the  calm  sunset  with  them,  and 
this  spot 
Was  even  as  bright   and   calm,  but  tran- 
sitory, 
And  now  thy  hopes  are  gone,  thy  hair  is 
hoary; 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain  — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 


OTHO. 


Thou  wert  not,  Cassius,  and  thou  couldst 
not  be, 
Last  of  the  Romans,  tho'  thy  memory 
claim 
From    Brutus    his  own   glory  — and    on 
thee 
Rests  the   full  splendor  of  his  sacred 
fame; 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1817. 


5o: 


Nor  he  who  dared  make  the  foul  tyrant 
quail 
Amid   his    cowering    senate  with   thy 
name, 
Tho'    thou  and  he  were  great  —  it  will 

avail 
To  thine  own  fame  that  Otho's  should 
not  fail. 

II. 

'T  will  wrong  thee  not  —  thou  wouldst, 
if  thou  couldst  feel, 
Abjure    such     envious     fame  —  great 
Otho  died 
Like  thee  —  he  sanctified  his  country's 
steel, 
At  once  the  tyrant  and  tyrannicide, 
In  his  own  blood  —  a    deed    it    was    to 
bring 
Tears    from    all    men  —  tho'    full     of 
gentle  pride, 
Such  pride  as  from  impetuous   love   may 

spring, 
That  will  not  be  refused  its  offering. 


FRAGMENTS    SUPPOSED   TO 
BE    PARTS   OF   OTHO. 


Those  whom  nor  power,  nor  lying  faith, 
nor  toil, 
Nor    custom,  queen    of  many    slaves, 
makes  blind, 
Have  ever  grieved  that  man  should  be 
the  spoil 
Of  his  own  weakness,  and  with  earnest 
mind 
Fed  hopes  of  its  redemption,  these  recur 
Chastened    by  deathful    victory    now, 
and  find 
Foundations  in  this  foulest  age,  and  stir 
Me  whom  they  cheer  to  be  their  minister. 


Dark  is  the  realm  of  grief :   but  human 
things 
Those  may  not  know  who  cannot  weep 
for  them. 


Once  more  descend 
The  shadows  of  my  soul   upon  man- 
kind, 
For    to    those    hearts    with    which    they 
never  blend, 
Thoughts  are   but   shadows  which  the 
flashing  mind 
From   the  swift  clouds  which  track    its 
flight  of  fire, 
Casts  on  the  gloomy  world  it   leaves 
behind. 


FRAGMENT:    A   CLOUD- 
CHARIOT. 

O  THAT  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine  ! 
Of    cloud    which    the    wild    tempest 
weaves  in  air, 
When  the  moon  over  the  ocean's  line 
Is  spreading  the  locks  of  her    bright 
gray  hair. 
O  that  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine  ! 
I  would  sail  on  the  waves  of  the  bil- 
lowy wind 
To  the  mountain  peak    and    the    rocky 

lake, 
And  the  .   .   . 


FRAGMENT:   TO   ONE   FREED 
FROM   PRISON. 

For  me,  my  friend,  if  not  that  tears  did 
tremble 
In  my  faint  eyes,   and  that  my  heart 
beat  fast 
With  feelings  which  make  rapture   pain 
resemble, 
Yet,    from    thy   voice    that    falsehood 
starts  aghast, 
I  thank  thee  —  let  the  tyrant  keep 
His  chains  and  tears,  yea  let  him  weep 
With  rage  to  see  thee  freshly  risen, 
Like  strength  from  slumber,  from  the 

prison, 
In  which  he  vainly  hoped  the  soul  to 
bind 
Which  on  the  chains  must  prey  that  fet- 
ter humankind. 


5°4 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  1817. 


FRAGMENT:    SATAN   AT   LARGE. 

A  GOLDEN-WINGED  Angel  stood 

Before  the  Eternal  Judgment-seat: 
His  looks  were  wild,  and  Devils'  blood 

Stained  his  dainty  hands  and  feet. 
The  Father  and  the  Son 
Knew  that  strife  was  now  begun. 
They  knew  that  Satan  had    broken    his 

chain, 
And  with  millions  of  demons  in  his  train, 
Was  ranging  over  the  world  again. 
Before  the  Angel  had  told  his  tale, 
A  sweet  and  a  creeping  sound 
Like  the  rushing  of  wings  was   heard 
around; 
And  suddenly  the  lamps  grew  pale  — 
The  lamps,  before  the  Archangels  seven, 
That  burn  continually  in  heaven. 


FRAGMENT:    UNSATISFIED 
DESIRE. 

To  thirst  and  find  no   fill  —  to  wail   and 

wander 
With  short  uneasy  steps  —  to  pause  and 

ponder  — 
To  feel  the  blood  run  thro'  the  veins  and 

tingle 
Where  busy  thought  and  blind  sensation 

mingle; 
To  nurse  the  image  of  unfelt  caresses 
Till  dim  imagination  just  possesses 
The  half  created  shadow. 


FRAGMENT:    LOVE   IMMORTAL. 

Wealth  and   dominion    fade    into    the 
mass 
Of  the  great  sea  of  human  right   and 
wrong, 

When    once    from    our   possession    they 
must  pass; 
But  love,  though  misdirected,  is  among 

The  things  which  are  immortal,  and  sur- 
pass 

All    that    frail   stuff  which  will  be  —  or 
wb;ch  was. 


FRAGMENT:    THOUGHTS   IN 
SOLITUDE. 

My  thoughts  arise  and  fade  in  solitude, 
The    verse    that    would    invest    them 

melts  away 
Like    moonlight    in    the    heaven    of 
spreading  day: 
How  beautiful  they  were,  how  firm  they 

stood, 
Flecking  the  starry  sky  like  woven  pearl  l 


FRAGMENT:    THE   FIGHT 
WAS   O'ER. 

The  fight  was  e'er:    the   flashing  thro' 

the  gloom 
Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he   wings  a 

tomb 
Had  ceast. 

A   HATE-SONG. 

A  Hater  he  came  and  sat  by  a  ditch, 

And  he  took  an  old  crackt  lute; 
And  he  sang  a  song  which  was  more  of 
a  screech 
'Gainst  a  woman  that  was  a  brute. 


LINES  TO   A  CRITIC. 


Honey  from  silkworms  who  can  gather, 

Or  silk  from  the  yellow  bee? 
The  grass  may  grow  in  winter  weather 

As  soon  as  hate  in  me. 


Hate  men  who  cant,  and  men  who  pray. 

And  men  who  rail  like  thee; 
An  ecmal  passion  to  repay 

They  are  not  coy  like  me. 


Or  seek  some  slave  of  power  and  gold, 
To  be  thy  dear  heart's  mate, 


NOTE  ON  POEMS   OF  1817. 


505 


Thy  love  will  move  that  bigot  cold 
Sooner  than  me  thy  hate. 


A  passion  like  the  one  I  prove 

Cannot  divided  be; 
I  hate  thy  want  of  truth  and  love 

How  should  I  then  hate  thee? 


OZYMANDIAS. 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said  :  "  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs 
of  stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.  Near  them,  on  the 
sand, 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose 
frown, 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand, 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions 
read 

Which  yet  survive,  stampt  on  these 
lifeless  things, 

The  hand  that  mockt  them  and  the 
heart  that  fed: 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 

'  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  de- 
spair !  ' 

Nothing  beside  remains.  Round  the  de- 
cay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and 
bare 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far 
away.  " 


NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  181 7,  BY 
MRS.  SHELLEY. 

The  very  illness  that  oppressed,  and 
^the  aspect  of  death  which  had  approached 
so  near  Shelley,  appear  to  have  kindled 
to  yet  keener  life  the  Spirit  of  Poetry  in 
his  heart.  The  restless  thoughts  kept 
awake  by  pain  clothed  themselves  in 
verse.  Much  was  composed  during  this 
year.  The  "Revolt  of  Islam,"  written 
and  printed,  was  a  great  effort  — "  Ros- 
alind and  Helen"  was  begun  —  and  the 


fragments  and  poems  I  can  trace  to  the 
same  period  show  how  full  of  passion 
and  reflection  were  his  solitary  hours. 

In  addition  to  such  poems  as  have  an 
intelligible  aim  and  shape,  many  a  stray 
idea  and  transitory  emotion  found  imper- 
fect and  abrupt  expression,  and  then 
again  lost  themselves  in  silence.  As  he 
never  wandered  without  a  book  and  with- 
out implements  of  writing,  I  find  many 
such,  in  his  manuscript  books,  that 
scarcely  bear  record ;  while  some  of  them, 
■  broken  and  vague  as  they  are,  will  ap- 
pear valuable  to  those  who  love  Shelley's 
i   mind,  and  desire  to  trace  its  workings. 

He  projected  also  translating  the 
Hymns  of  Homer;  his  version  of  several 
of  the  shorter  ones  remains,  as  well  as 
that  to  Mercury  already  published  in  the 
"Posthumous  Poems."  His  readings 
this  year  were  chiefly  Greek.  Besides 
the  Hymns  of  Homer  and  the  "  Iliad," 
he  read  the  Dramas  of  ^Eschylus  and 
Sophocles,  the  "  Symposium  "  of  Plato, 
and  Arrian's  "  Historia  Indica."  In 
Latin,  Apuleius  alone  is  named.  In  Eng- 
lish, the  Bible  was  his  constant  study; 
he  read  a  great  portion  of  it  aloud  in  the 
evening.  Among  these  evening  readings 
I  rind  also  mentioned  the  "  Eaery 
Queen  ;"  and  other  modern  works,  the 
production  of  his  contemporaries,  Cole- 
ridge, Wordsworth,  Moore,  and  Byron. 

1  lis  life  was  now  spent  more  in  thought 
than  action  —  he  had  lost  the  eager  spirit 
which  believed  it  could  achieve  what  it 
projected  for  the  benefit  of  mankind. 
And  yet  in  the  converse  of  daily  life 
Shelley  was  far  from  being  a  melancholy 
man.  He  was  eloquent  wdien  philoso- 
phy or  politics  or  taste  were  the  subjects 
of  conversation.  He  was  playful;  and 
indulged  in  the  wild  spirit  that  mocked 
itself  and  others — not  in  bitterness,  but 
in  sport.  The  author  of  "Nightmare 
Abbey  "  seized  on  some  points  of  his 
character  and  some  habits  of  his  life 
when  he  painted  Scythrop.  He  was  not 
addicted  to  "port  or  madeira,"  but  in 
youth  he  had  read  of  "  Illuminati  and 
Eleutherarchs,"  and  believed  that  he 
possessed  the  power  of  operating  an  im- 
mediate chance  in  the  minds  of  men  and 


5°6 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  i8ii 


the  state  of  society.  These  wild  dreams 
had  faded  ;  sorrow  and  adversity  had 
struck  home  ;  but  he  struggled  with  de- 
spondency as  he  did  with  physical  pain. 
There  are  few  who  remember  him  sailing 
paper  boats,  and  watching  the  navigation 
of  his  tiny  craft  with  eagerness —  or  re- 
peating with  wild  energy  "The  Ancient 
Mariner,"  and  Southey's  "Old  Woman 
of  Berkeley,"  but  those  who  do  will  re- 
collect that  it  was  in  such,  and  in  the 
creations  of  his  own  fancy  when  that  was 
most  daring  and  ideal,  that  he  sheltered 
himself  from  the  storms  and  disappoint- 
ments, the  pain  and  sorrow,  that  beset 
his  life. 

Xo  words  can  express  the  anguish  he   ; 
felt   when   his  elder   children  were   torn 
from  him.      In  his  first  resentment  against 
the  Chancellor,  on  the  passing  of  the  de-    J 
cree,  he    had   written   a  curse,   in   which   ! 
there  breathes,  besides   haughty  indigna- 
tion, all  the  tenderness  of  a  father's  love, 
which    could    imagine   and   fondly  dwell 
upon  its  loss  and  the  consequences. 

At   one    time,  while    the   question  was   I 
still    pending,    the   Chancellor   had    said 
some  words  that  seemed  to  intimate  that 
Shelley  should  not  be  permitted  the  care 
of  any  of   his  children,  and  for  a  moment    j 
he   feared   that  our   infant   son  would  be    ' 
torn  from  us.      He  did  not  hesitate  to  re-    i 
solve,  if  such  were  menaced,  to  abandon   j 
country,    fortune,  everything,   and   to  es-    j 
cape    with    his   child:     and    I    find   some 
unfinished   stanzas   addressed  to  this  son, 
whom   afterwards  we  lost  at  Rome,  writ- 
ten under  the  idea  that  we  might  suddenly 
be  forced  to  cross  the  sea,  so  to  preserve 
him.     This  poem,  as  well  as  the  one  pre- 
viously quoted,  were   not  written  to  ex- 
hibit the  pangs  of  distress  to  the  public; 
th  -y  were  the  spontaneous  outbursts  of  a 
man   who   brooded   over   his  wrongs  and 
woes,  and  was  impelled  to  shed  the  grace 
of    his    genius    over    the    uncontrollable 
emotions  of  his  heart.      I  ought  to  observe 
that    the   fourth  verse   of  this    effusion   is 
introduced   in    "Rosalind    and    Helen." 
When  afterwards  this  child  died  at  Rome, 
he  wrote,  a propos  of  the  English  burying- 
ground   in    that    city:    "This  spot   is  the 
repository  of  a  sacred  loss,  of   which  the 


yearnings  of  a  parent's  heart  are  now 
prophetic  ;  he  is  rendered  immortal  by 
love,  as  his  memory  is  by  death.  My 
beloved  child  lies  buried  here.  I  envy 
death  the  body  far  less  tfian  the  oppres- 
sors the  minds  of  those  whom  they  have 
torn  from  me.  The  one  can  only  kill  the 
body,  the  other  crushes  the  affections. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1818. 
TO    THE   NILE. 

Month  after  month  the  gathered  rains 
descend 

Drenching  yon  secret  Ethiopian  dells, 

And  from  the  desert's  ice-girt  pinnacles 

Where  Frost  and  Heat  in  strange  em- 
braces blend 

On  Atlas,  fields  of  moist  snow  half  de- 
pend. 

Girt  there  with  blasts  and  meteors,  Tem- 
pest dwells 

By  Nile's  aerial  urn,  with  rapid  spells 

Urging  those  waters  to  their  mighty  end. 

O'er  Egypt's  land  of  Memory  floods  are 
level 

And  they  are  thine,  O  Nile  !  — and  well 
thou  knowest 

That  soul-sustaining  airs  and  blasts  of 
evil 

And  fruits  and  poisons  spring  where'er 
thou  flowest. 

Beware  O  Man — -for  knowledge  must  tc 
thee 

Like  the  great  flood  to  Egypt,  ever  be. 


PASSAGE   OF  THE  APENNINES. 

Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine, 

To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine, 

It  bursts  on  the  roof  like   the  thunder's 

roar, 
Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore, 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 
By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of   day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray, 
Which  between   the  earth  and  sky  doth 

lay; 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


5°7 


But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the 
storm. 

THE   PAST. 


Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours 
Which  we  buried  in  Love's  sweet  bowers, 
Heaping  o'er  their  corpses  cold 
Blossoms  and  leaves,  instead  of  mould? 
Blossoms  which  were  the  joys  that  fell, 
And  leaves,  the  hopes  that  yet  re- 
main. 

II. 

Forget  the  dead,  the  past?     O  yet 
There  are  ghosts  that   may  take  revenge 

for  it, 
Memories  that  make  the  heart  a  tomb, 
Regrets    which    glide    thro'    the    spirit's 
gloom, 
And  with  ghastly  whispers  tell 
That  joy,  once  lost,  is  pain. 

TO    MARY    . 

0  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here, 
With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear 
And  your  sweet  voice,  like  a  bird 
Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 

In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate; 

Voice  the  sweetest  ever  heard  ! 

And  your  brow  more   .    .    . 

Than  the  sky 

Of  this  azure  Italy. 

Mary  dear,  come  to  me  soon, 

1  am  not  well  whilst  thou  art  far; 
As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon, 
As  twilight  to  the  western  star, 
Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here; 
The  Castle  echo  whispers  "  Here  !  " 

ON    A    FADED    VIOLET. 

1. 

The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone 

Which  like  thy  kisses  breathed  on  me: 


The  color  from  the  flower  is  flown 

Which  glowed  of  thee  and  only  thee  ! 


A  shrivelled,  lifeless,  vacant  form, 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast, 

And  mocks  the  heart  which  yet  is  warm, 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 


I  weep,  —  my  tears  revive  it  not ! 

I  sigh,- —  it  breathes  no  more  on  me; 
Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 

Is  such  as  mine  should  be. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   AMONG   THE    EUGANEAN 
HILLS. 

October,   18 18. 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky, 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet; 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat; 


508 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may, 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress? 

Then  't  will  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill; 

Every  little  living  nerve 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally, 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones, 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones, 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand, 

Boundaries  of   the  sea  and  land: 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town, 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides: 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapor,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led, 

My  bark  by  soft  winds  piloted: 

Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

I  stood  listening  to  the  paean, 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Thro'  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Fleckt  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 


Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 
Thro'  the  broken  mist  they  sail, 
And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 
P'ollow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 
Wjth  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1818. 


5«) 


The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Quivering  thro'  aerial  gold, 
As  I  now  behold  them  here, 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 
Like  pollution-nourisht  worms 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 
Murdered,  and  now  mouldering : 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 
From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 
All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 
Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 
Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 
Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 
Might  adorn  this  sunny  land, 
Twining  memories  of  old  time 
With  new  virtues  more  sublime; 
If  not,  perish  thou  and  they, 
Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 
By  her  sun  consumed  away, 
Earth  can  spare  ye :  while  like  flowers, 
In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 
From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 
With  more  kindly  blossoming. 
Perish  —  let  there  only  be 
Floating  o'er  thy  heartless  sea 
As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 
Clothes  the  world  immortally, 
One  remembrance,  more  sublime 
Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 
Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan;  — 
That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan 
Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 
Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 
By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 
Found  a  nest  in  thee;  and  Ocean 
Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 
That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 
From  his  lips  like  music  flung 
O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 
Chastening  terror: — what  tho'  yet 
Poesy's  unfailing  River, 
Which  thro'  Albion  winds  forever 


Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  Poet's  grave, 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled? 
What  tho'  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own?  oh,  rather  say 
Tho'  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul? 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs; 
As  divinest  Shakespere's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 
Like  omniscient  power  which  he 
Imaged  mid  mortality; 
As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn, 
Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 
A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 
Sees  things  unearthly;  —  so  thou  art 
Mighty  spirit  —  so  shall  be 
The  City  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread, 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain, 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe, 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heapt  upon  the  creaking  wain, 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  tho'  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison, 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest-home: 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow, 
Or  worse;    but  't  is  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 


5r° 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  181I 


Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win!  " 
And  Sin  curst  to  lose  the  wager, 
But  Death  promist,  to  assuage  her, 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er, 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before, 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 
That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  repentance  follows  Crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray: 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth : 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells, 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells, 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes, 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born: 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  thro'  the  darkened  sky 

With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear:   so  thou 

O  Tyranny  !  beholdest  now 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest: 

Grovel  on  the  earth  !  ay,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now: 
'T  is  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 


Or  an  air-dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 

Piercing  with  their  trellist  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air;    the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet;    the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded: 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun; 

And  of  living  things  each  one; 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky: 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon, 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs: 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

Mid  remembered  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf:   even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills, 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine: 

We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude: 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  wind  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies, 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood: 

They,  not  it,  would  change;    and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


SCENE  FROM    "TASSO." 

Maddalo,  a  Courtier.  Pigna,  a  Minister. 

Malpiglio,  a  Poet.  Albano,  an  Usher. 

Maddalo.         No  access  to  the  Duke  ! 
You  have  not  said 
That    the    Count    Maddalo  would  speak 
with  him? 
Pigna.     Did  you  inform  his  Grace  that 
Signor  Pigna 
Waits  with  state  papers  for  his  signature? 
Malpiglio.     The  Lady  Leonora  cannot 
know 
That  I  have  written  a  sonnet  to  her  fame, 
In  which  I  Venus  and  Adonis. 

You  should  not  take  my  gold  and  serve 
me  not. 


Albano.     In  truth  I  told  her,  and  she 

smiled  and  said, 
"  If  I  am  Venus,  thou,  coy  Poesy, 
Art  the  Adonis  whom  I  love,  and  he 
The    Erymanthian    boar    that    wounded 

him." 
O  trust  to  me,  Signor  Malpiglio, 
Those  nods  and  smiles  were  favors  worth 

the  zechin. 
Malpiglio.     The  words  are  twisted  in 

some  double  sense 
That   I  reach   not:    the    smiles   fell   not 

on  me. 
Pigna.  How  are    the    Duke  and 

Duchess  occupied? 
Albano.     Buried  in  some  strange  talk. 

The  Duke  was  leaning, 
His  finger  on  his  brow,  his  lips  unclosed. 
The  Princess  sate  within  the  window-seat, 
And  so  her  face  was  hid;  but  on  her  knee 
Her    hands    were    claspt,    veined,    and 

pale  as  snow, 
And   quivering  —  young  Tasso,  too,  was 

there. 
Maddalo.     Thou  seest  on  whom  from 

thine  own  worshipped  heaven 
Thou    drawest    down    smiles  —  they  did 

not  rain  on  thee. 
Malpiglio.     Would   they  were   parch- 
ing lightnings  for  his  sake 
On  whom  they  fell ! 


SONG   FOR    ''TASSO.' 


I  loved —  alas  !   our  life  is  love; 

But  when  we  cease  to  breathe  and  move 

I  do  suppose  love  ceases  too. 

I  thought,  but  not  as  now  I  do, 

Keen  thoughts  and  bright  of  linked  lore, 

Of  all  that  men  had  thought  before, 

And  all  that  nature  shows,  and  more. 


And  still  I  love  and  still  I  think, 
But  strangely,  for  my  heart  can  drink 
The  dregs  of  such  despair,  and  live, 
And  love;    .   .   . 

And  if  I  think,  my  thoughts  come  fast, 
I  mix  the  present  with  the  past, 
And  each  seems  uglier  than  the  last. 


Si2 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


III. 

VI. 

Sometimes  I  see  before  me  flee 

There  our  tent  shall  be  the  willow 

A  silver  spirit's  form,  like  thee, 

And  thine  arm  shall  be  my  pillow; 

0  Leonora,  and  I  sit 

Sounds  and  odors  sorrowful 

.    .    .   still  watching  it, 

Because  they  once  were  sweet,  shall  lull 

Till  by  the  grated  casement's  ledge 

Us  to  slumber,  deep  and  dull. 

It  fades,  with  such  a  sigh,  as  sedge 

Breathes  o'er  the  breezy  streamlet's  edge. 

VII. 

Ha  !  thy  frozen  pulses  flutter 

TO   MISERY. 

With  a  love  thou  darest  not  utter. 
Thou  art  murmuring  —  thou  art  weep- 

i. 

ing  — 
Is  thine  icy  bosom  leaping 

Come,  be  happy  !  —  sit  near  me, 

While  my  burning  heart  lies  sleeping? 

Shadow-vested  Misery: 

Coy,  unwilling,  silent  bride, 

VIII. 

Mourning  in  thy  robe  of  pride, 
Desolation  —  deified  ! 

Kiss  me;  — oh  !  thy  lips  are  cold; 

Round  my  neck  thine  arms  enfold  — 

They  are  soft,  but  chill  and  dead; 

II. 

And  thy  tears  upon  my  head 

Burn  like  points  of  frozen  lead. 

Come,  be  happy;  — sit  near  me: 

Sad  as  I  may  seem  to  thee, 

I  am  happier  far  than  thou, 

IX. 

Lady,  whose  imperial  brow 
Is  endiademed  with  woe. 

Hasten  to  the  bridal  bed  — 

Underneath  the  grave  't  is  spread: 

In  darkness  may  our  love  be  hid, 

in. 

Oblivion  be  our  coverlid  — 

Misery  !  we  have  known  each  other, 

We  may  rest,  and  none  forbid. 

Like  a  sister  and  a  brother 

Living  in  the  same  lone  home, 

X. 

Many  years  —  we  must  live  some 

Clasp  me  till  our  hearts  be  grown 

Hours  or  ages  yet  to  come. 

Like  two  shadows  into  one; 

Till  this  dreadful  transport  may 

IV. 

Like  a  vapor  fade  away 

In  the  sleep  that  lasts  alway. 

'T  is  an  evil  lot,  and  yet 

Let  us  make  the  best  of  it; 

If  love  can  live  when  pleasure  dies, 

XI. 

We  two  will  love,  till  in  our  eyes 

We  may  dream,  in  that  long  sleep, 

This  heart's  Hell  seem  Paradise. 

That  we  are  not  those  who  weep; 

E'en  as  Pleasure  dreams  of  thee, 

v. 

life-deserting  Misery, 

Thou  mayst  dream  of  her  with  me. 

Come,  be  happy  !  —  lie  thee  down 

On  the  fresh  grass  newly  mown, 

XII. 

Where  the  Grasshopper  doth  sing 

Merrily  —  one  joyous  thing 

Let  us  laugh,  and.  make  our  mirth, 

In  a  wor'd  of  sorrowing! 

At  the  shadows  of  the  earth, 

POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


5i3 


As  dogs  bay  the  moonlight  clouds, 
Which,  like  spectres  wrapt  in  shrouds, 
Pass  o'er  night  in  multitudes. 

XIII. 

All  the  wide  world,  beside  us 
Show  like  multitudinous 
Puppets  passing  from  a  scene; 
What  but  mockery  can  they  mean, 
Where  I  am  —  where  thou  hast  been  ? 


STANZAS. 


WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR    NAPLES. 


The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The    waves    are    dancing     fast     and 
bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might, 
The    breath    of    the    moist    earth    is 
light, 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds; 

Like  many  a  voice  of   one  delight, 
The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Soli- 
tude's. 


I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With     green     and     purple     seaweeds 

strown; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers, 

thrown : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !   did  any   heart    now  share 
in  my  emotion. 


Alas!  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And       walkt     with      inward      glory 
crowned  — 


Nor    fame,    nor   power,    nor  love,   nor 
leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call   life  pleas- 
ure ;  — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 

IV. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I   have   borne   and   yet  must 
bear, 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe    o'er   my   dying    brain   its    last 
monotony. 


Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 
As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown 
old, 
Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 
They  might  lament— for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not,  ■ — and  yet  regret, 
Unlike    this  day,   which,   when    the 
sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in 
memory  yet. 


THE    WOODMAN    AND   THE 
NIGHTINGALE. 

A  woodman  whose  rough  heart  was  out 

of  tune 
(I  think   such   hearts  yet   never  came   to 

good) 
Hated  to  hear,  under  the  stars  or  moon, 

One  nightingale  in  an  interfluous  wood 
Satiate  the  hungry  dark  with  melody;  — 
And  as  a  vale  is  watered  by  a  flood, 

Or  as  the  moonlight  fills  the  open  sky 
Struggling  with  darkness  —  as  a  tuberose 


5H 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


Peoples    some    Indian    dell    with    scents 
which  lie 

Like  clouds  above  the  flower  from  which 

they  rose, 
The  singing  of  that  happy  nightingale 
In   this    sweet    forest,    from    the    golden 

close 

Of    evening  till   the   star   of    dawn  may 

fail, 
Was  interfused  upon  the  silentness; 
The  folded  roses  and  the  violets  pale 

Heard    her    within    their    slumbers,    the 

abyss 
Of  heaven  with  all  its  planets;    the  dull 

ear 
Of  the  night-cradled  earth;  the  loneliness 


Of     the    circumfluous    waters,  —  every 

sphere 
And  every   flower  and  beam   and  cloud 

and  wave, 
And  every  wind  of  the  mute  atmosphere, 

And  every  beast  stretcht    in    its  rugged 

cave, 
And  every  bird  lulled  on  its  mossy  bough, 
And   every  silver    moth   fresh    from    the 

grave, 

Which  is  its  cradle  —  ever  from  below 
Aspiring  like  one  who  loves  too  fair,  too 

far, 
To  be  consumed  within  the  purest  glow 

Of  one  serene  and  unapproached  star, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  light, 
Unconscious,  as  some  human  lovers  are,  . 

Itself    how    low,   how    high    beyond    all 

height 
The    heaven  where   it  would    perish !  — 

and  every  form 
That    worshippt    in    the    temple    of    the 

night 

Was  awed  into  delight,  and  by  the  charm 
Girt  as  with  an  interminable  zone, 
Whilst  that  sweet  bird,  whose  music  was 
a  storm 


Of  sound,  shook  forth  the  dull  oblivion 
Out  of  their  dreams;     harmony  became 

love 
In  every  soul  but  one. 


And  so  this  man  returned  with  axe  and 

saw 
At  evening  close   from    killing    the    tall 

treen, 
The  soul  of  whom  by  nature's  gentle  law 

Was  each  a  wood-nymph,  and  kept  ever 

green 
The  pavement  and  the  roof  of  the  wild 

copse, 
Checkering  the  sunlight  of  the  blue  serene 

With  jagged  leaves,  —  and  from  the  for- 
est tops 

Singing  the  winds  to  sleep  —  or  weeping 
oft 

Fast  showers  of  aerial  water  drops 

Into  their  mother's  bosom,  sweet  and  soft, 
Nature's  pure  tears  which  have  no  bitter- 
ness; — 
Around  the  cradles  of  the  birds  aloft 

They  spread  themselves  into  the  loveli- 
ness 

Of  fan-like  leaves,  and  over  pallid  flow- 
ers 

Hang  like  moist  clouds: — or,  where 
high  branches  kiss, 

Make   a  green   space    among    the    silent 

bowers, 
Like  a  vast  fane  in  a  metropolis, 
Surrounded     by    the     columns     and    the 

towers 

All  overwrought  with  branch-like  trace- 
ries 
In  which  there  is  religion  —  and  the  mute 
Persuasion  of  unkindled  melodies, 

Odors  and  gleams  and   murmurs,  which 

the  lute 
Of  the  blind  pilot-spirit  of  the  blast 
Stirs  as  it  sails,  now  grave  and  now  acute, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


515 


Wakening  the  leaves  and  waves,  ere  it 

has  past 
To  such  brief  unison  as  on  the  brain 
One   tone,  which  never   can    recur,    has 

cast, 
One  accent  never  to  return  again. 


The  world  is  full  of  Woodmen  who  expel 
Love's  gentle  Dryads  from  the  haunts  of 

life, 
And  vex  the  nightingales  in  every  dell. 


MARENGHI.i 


Let   those   who   pine  in  pride  or  in  re- 
venge, 
Or  think  that  ill  for  ill  should  be  repaid, 
Or    barter    wrong    for    wrong,    until   the 
exchange 
Ruins  the  merchants  of  such  thriftless 
trade, 
Visit  the  tower  of  Vado,  and  unlearn 
Such  bitter  faith  beside  Marenghi's  urn. 


A  massy  tower  yet  overhangs  the  town, 
A  scattered  group  of  ruined  dwellings 
now. 


Another  scene  ere  wise  Etruria  knew 
Its  second  ruin  thro'   internal  strife, 
And  tyrants  thro'   the   breach  of  discord 

threw 
The  chain  which  binds  and  kills.      As 

death  to  life, 
As  winter  to  fair  flowers  (tho'  some  be 

poison) 
So    Monarchy    succeeds    to    Freedom's 

foison. 


1  This  fragment  refers  to  an  event  told  in  Sis- 
mondi's  Histoire  des  Republiques  Italiennes, 
.rhirh  occurred  during  the  war  when  Florence 
finally  subdued  Pisa,  and  reduced  it  to  a  province 
[Mrs:  Shelley]. 


In  Pisa's  church  a  cup  of  sculptured  gold 
Was  brimming  with  the  blood  of  feuds 
forsworn 
At  sacrament:   more  holy  ne'er  of  old 
Etrurians  mingled  with  the  shades  for- 
lorn 
Of  moon-illumined  forests. 


And  reconciling  factions  wet  their  lips 
With  that   dread   wine,  and   swear   to 

keep  each  spirit 
Undarkened    by     their     country's     last 

eclipse. 


Was  Florence  the  liberticide?  that  band 
Of  free  and  glorious  brothers  who  had 
planted, 
Like  a  green  isle  mid  /Ethiopian  sand, 

A  nation  amid  slaveries,  disenchanted 
Of  many   impious   faiths — wise,   just  — 

do  they, 
Does  Florence,  gorge  the  sated  tyrants' 
prey? 


O  foster-nurse  of  man's  abandoned  glory, 
Since  Athens,    its  great   mother,  sunk 
in  splendor; 

Thou  shadowest  forth  that  mighty  shape 
in  story, 
As  ocean  its  wreckt  fanes,  severe  yet 
tender :  — 

The  light-invested  angel  Poesy 

Was  drawn  from  the  dim  world  to  wel- 
come thee. 


And  thou  in  painting  didst  transcribe  all 
taught 
By  loftiest  meditations;    marble  knew 
The  sculptor's  fearless  soul  —  and  as  he 
wrought 
The  grace  of  his  own  power  and  free- 
dom grew. 


Si6 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1818. 


And  more  than  all,  heroic,  just,  sublime, 
Thou   wert   among  the  false  —  was    this 
thy  crime? 

IX. 

Yes;    and    on    Pisa's    marble    walls   the 
twine 
Of    direst  weeds    hangs    garlanded  — 
the  snake 

Inhabits  its  wrecked  palaces;  — in  thine 
A  beast   of    subtler   venom   now   doth 
make 

Its  lair,  and  sits  amid  their  glories  over- 
thrown, 

And   thus   thy   victim's    fate   is   as  thine 
own. 


x. 

The  sweetest   flowers   are  ever    frail   and 

rare, 
And  love  and   freedom  blossom  but  to 

wither; 
And   good   and   ill    like   vines   entangled 

are, 
So  that  their  grapes  may  oft  be  pluckt 

together;  — 
Divide   the  vintage  ere   thou  drink,   then 

make 
Thy  heart   rejoice   for    dead  Marenghi's 

sake. 


XI. 

No  record  of  his  crime  remains  in  story, 

But  if  the   morning   bright  as  evening 

shone, 

It  was  some  high  and  holy  deed,  by  glory 

Pursued  into   forgetfulness,  which  won 

From  the   blind   crowd  he    made   secure 

and  free 
The  patriot's  meed,   toil,  death,  and  in- 
famy. 


For  when  by  sound  of  trumpet   was  de- 
clared 
A  price  upon  his  life,  and  there  was  set 
A.  penalty  of   blood  on  all  who  shared 

So  much  of  water  with  him  as  might  wet 
His  lips,  which  speech   divided  not  — he- 
went 
\lone,  as  you  may  guess,  to  banishment. 


Amid  the  mountains,  like  a  hunted  beast, 
He  hid  himself,  and  hunger,  toil,   and 

cold, 
Month    after   month    endured;    it   was  a 

feast 
Whene'er    he    found    those    globes   of 

deep-red  gold 
Which  in  the  woods   the  strawberry-tree 

doth  bear, 
Suspended  in  their  emerald  atmosphere. 

XIV. 

And  in  the  roofless  huts  of  vast  morasses, 

Deserted  by  the  fever-stricken  serf, 
All  overgrown  with  reeds  and  long  rank 

grasses, 
And  hillocks   heapt    of  moss-inwoven 

turf, 
And  where  the  huge  and  speckled  aloe 

made, 
Rooted    in   stones,  a   broad   and  pointed 

shade, 

XV. 

He  housed  himself.     There  is  a  point  of 
strand 
Near  Vado's    tower  and  town;    and  on 
one  side 

The    treacherous    marsh    divides  it  from 
the  land, 
Shadowed    by    pine    and     ilex    forests 
wide, 

And  on  the  other  creeps  eternally, 

Thro'    muddy    weeds,    the    shallow    sul- 
len sea. 

XVI. 

Here  the  earth's  breath  is  pestilence,  and 
few 
Put  things  whose  nature  is  at  war  with 
life  — 

Snakes  and  ill  worms  — endure  its  mor- 
tal dew. 
The   trophies  of  the  clime's  victorious 
strife — 

White  bones,  and  locks  of   dun    and  yel- 
low hair, 

And  ringed    horns   which    buffaloes   did 
wear  — 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


5*7 


And  at  the  utmost  point  stood  there 

The  relics  of  a  weed-inwoven  cot, 
Thatcht  with  broad  flags.      An  outlawed 
murderer 
Had  lived  seven  days  there;   the  pur- 
suit was  hot 
When    he    was    cold.     The    birds    that 

were  his  grave 
Fell  dead  upon  their  feast  in  Vado's  wave. 


There  must  have  lived  within  Marenghi's 
heart 
That  fire,  more  warm  and  bright   than 
life  or  hope, 

(Which   to  the    martyr    makes  his  dun- 
geon .   .   . 
More  joyous  than  the  heaven's  majes- 
tic cope 

To  his  oppressor),  warring  with  decay, — 

Or  he  could  ne'er  have   lived  years,  day 
by  day. 

XIX. 

Nor  was  his  state  so   lone   as  you  might 

think. 
He  had  tamed   every  newt   and  snake 

and  toad, 
And  every  seagull  which  sailed  down  to 

drink 
Those   .   .    .   ere    the    death-mist    went 

abroad. 
And  each  one,  with  peculiar  talk  and  play, 
Wiled,  not  untaught,  his  silent  time  away. 


And  the  marsh-meteors,  like  tame  beasts, 
at  night 
Came    licking    with    blue   tongues    his 
veined  feet; 

And    he    would     watch     them,    as,     like 
spirits  bright, 
In  many  entangled  figures  quaint   and 
sweet 

To    some   enchanted   music    they    would 
dance  — 

Until    they    vanisht    at    the    first    moon- 
glance. 


He  mockt  the  stars  by  grouping  on  each 

weed 
The   summer  dewdrops   in  the  golden 

dawn; 
And,  ere  the  hoar-frost  vanisht,  he  could 

read 
Its  pictured  footprints,  as  on  spots  of 

lawn 
Its  delicate  brief  touch  in  silence  weaves 
The  likeness  of  the  wood's  remembered 

leaves. 


And  many  a  fresh  Spring-morn  would  he 
awaken  — 
While  yet  the  unrisen  sun  made  glow, 
like  iron 

Quivering  in  crimson  fire,  the  peaks  un- 
shaken 
Of  mountains  and  blue  isles  which  did 
environ 

With   air-clad   crags  that   plain  of    land 
and  sea,  — 

And  feel  liberty. 

XXIII. 

And  in   the  moonless   nights,  when    the 
dim  ocean 
Heaved  underneath  the  heaven  .   .   . 
Starting  from  dreams   .   .    . 

Communed     with     the     immeasurable 
world : 
And  felt  his  life  beyond  his  limbs  dilated, 
Till  his  mind  grew  like  that  it  contem- 
plated. 


His  food  was  the  wild  fig  and  strawberry; 
The  milky  pine-nuts  which  the  autumnal 

blast 
Shakes    into    the    tall    grass;    and    such 

small  fry 
As  from  the  sea  by  winter-storms  are 

cast ; 
And   the   coarse   bulbs  of  iris-flowers  he 

found 
Knotted    in    clumps    under    the    spongy 

ground. 


5i8 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1818. 


xxv. 

And  so  were  kindled  powers  and  thoughts 
which  made 
His  solitude   less   dark.     When   mem- 
ory came 
(For  years  gone  by  leave  each  a  deepen- 
ing shade), 
His  spirit  baskt  in  its  internal  flame  — 
As,  when  the  black  storm  hurries  round 

at  night, 
The  fisher  basks  beside  his  red  firelight. 


Yet  human  hopes   and   cares   and  faiths 
and  errors, 
Like  billows  unawakened  by  the  wind, 
Slept    in    Marenghi    still;     but    that    all 
terrors, 
Weakness,, and  doubt,  had  withered  in 
his  mind. 
His  couch  .  .   . 


And,  when  he  saw  beneath  the  sunset's 
planet 
A  black  ship   walk   over   the  crimson 
ocean, — 

Its  pennons  streaming  on  the  blasts  that 
fan  it, 
Its  sails  and  ropes  all  tense  and  with- 
out motion, 

Like  the  dark  ghost  of  the  unburied  even 

Striding      across      the      orange-colored 
heaven, — 


The  thought  of  his  own  kind  who  made 

the  soul 
Which    sped  that  winged  shape  thro' 

night  and  day,  — 
The  thought  of  his  own  country  .   .   . 


SONNET. 

Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those 
who  live 

Call  Life :  tho'  unreal  shapes  be  pic- 
tured there, 


And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With   colors   idly  spread,  —  behind,  lurk 

Fear 
And    Hope,    twin    destinies;    who    ever 

weave 
Their  shadows,  o'er  the  chasm,  sightless 

and  drear. 
I  knew  one  who  had  lifted  it  —  he  sought, 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to 

love, 
But  found  them  not,  alas  !  nor  was  there 

aught 
The  world   contains,  the  which  he  could 

approve. 
Thro'     the     unheeding     many     he     did 

move, 
A    splendor    among   shadows,    a    bright 

blot 
Upon   this  gloomy   scene,   a  Spirit   that 

strove 
For  truth,   and  like   the  Preacher  found 

it  not. 


FRAGMENT:     TO   BYRON. 

O  mighty  mind,  in  whose  deep  stream 

this  age 
Shakes  like  a  reed  in  the  unheeding  storm, 
Why  dost  thou  curb  not  thine  own  sacred 

rage? 


FRAGMENT:    APPEAL    TO 
SILENCE. 

Silence  !     O  well  are  Death  and   Sleep 

and  Thou 
Three    brethren    named,    the    guardians 

gloomy-winged 
Of  one  abyss,  where  life,  and  truth,  and 

joy 
Are  swallowed  up  —  yet  spare  me,  Spirit, 

pity  me, 
Until    the    sounds    I    hear    become    my 

soul, 
And  it  has   left    these   faint   and   weary 

limbs, 
To  track  along  the  lapses  of  the  air 
This  wandering  melody  until  it  rests 
Among  lone  mountains  in  some  .   .  . 


NOTE    ON  POEMS    OF   i5i5. 


5J9 


FRAGMENT:     THE    STREAM'S 
MARGIN. 

The  fierce  beasts  of  the  woods  and  wil- 
dernesses 

Track  not  the  steps  of  him  who  drinks 
of  it: 

For  the  light  breezes,  which  forever  fleet 

Around  its  margin,  heap  the  sand  thereon. 


FRAGMENT:    A   LOST   LEADER 

My  head  is  wild  with  weeping  for  a  grief 
Which  is  the  shadow  of  a  gentle  mind. 
I  walk  into  the  air  (but  no  relief 

To  seek,  —  or    haply,   if  I    sought,  to 
find; 
It  came  unsought);  — to  wonder  that  a 
chief 
Among  men's   spirits  should  be  cold 
and  blind. 


FRAGMENT:    THE   VINE   AMID 
RUINS. 

Flourishing  vine,  whose  kindling  clus- 
ters glow 
Beneath  the  autumnal  sun,  none  taste 
of  thee; 
For  thou  dost  shroud  a  ruin,  and  below 
The  rotting  bones  of  dead  antiquity. 


NOTE   ON    POEMS   OF    1818, 
MRS.    SHELLEY. 


BY 


We  often  hear  of  persons  disappointed 
by  a  first  visit  to  Italy.  This  was  not 
Shelley's  case.  The  aspect  of  its  nature, 
its  sunny  sky,  its  majestic  storms,  of  the 
luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  country,  and 
the  noble  marble-built  cities,  enchanted 
him,  The  sight  of  the  works  of  art  was 
full  of  enjoyment  and  wonder.  He  had 
not  stuched  pictures  or  statues  before;  he 
now  did  so  with  the  eye  of  taste,  that  re- 
ferred not  to  the  rules  of  schools,  but  to 
those  of  Nature  and  truth.  The  first  en- 
trance to  Rome  opened  to  him  a  scene  of 


remains  of  antique  grandeur  that  far 
surpassed  his  expectations;  and  the  un- 
speakable beauty  of  Naples  and  its  envi- 
rons added  to  the  impression  he  received 
of  the  transcendent  and  glorious  beauty 
of  Italy. 

Our  winter  was  spent  at  Naples.     Here 
he  wrote  the  fragments  of   "  Marenghi  " 
and  "  The   Woodman   and   the   Nightin- 
gale," which  he  afterwards   threw  aside. 
At  this  time,   Shelley  suffered  greatly  in 
health.     He  put   himself  under  the  care 
j   of  a  medical   man,   who  promised  great 
I   things,  and  made  him  endure  severe  bodily 
pain,  without  any  good  results.     Constant 
and  poignant  physical  suffering  exhausted 
:   him;  and  though  he  preserved  the  appear  - 
i   ance   of  cheerfulness,    and   often  greatly 
!   enjoyed  our  wanderings  in   the   environs 
of  Naples,  and  our  excursions  on  its  sunny 
sea,  yet   many  hours   were   passed   when 
:  his  thoughts,  shadowed  by  illness,  became 
\  gloomy, —  and  then  he  escaped  to  soli- 
|  tude,  and  in  verses,  which  he  hid  for  fear 
i  of    wounding  me,    poured  forth  morbid 
'  but  too  natural  bursts  of  discontent  and 
j  sadness.     One  looks  back  with  unspeak- 
I  able  regret  and  gnawing  remorse  to  such 
I   periods ;  fancying  that,  had  one  been  more 
i   alive   to   the   nature   of  his  feelings,  and 
more  attentive  to  soothe  them,  such  would 
not  have   existed.     And  yet,   enjoying  as 
he   appeared  to  do   every  sight   or    influ- 
ence of  earth  and  sky,  it  was  difficult  to 
imagine  that    any  melancholy  he  showed 
was  aught  but  the  effect  of  the  constant 
pain  to  which  he  was  a  martyr. 

We  lived  in  utter  solitude.     And  such 
is  often  not  the  nurse  of  cheerfulness;  for 
I  then,  at  least  with   those  who  have  been 
:   exposed    to   adversity,    the   mind  broods 
1   over  its  sorrows   too   intently;    while  the 
\  society  of  the  enlightened,  the  witty,  and 
the  wise,  enables   us   to   forget   ourselves 
by  making  us  the  sharers  of  the  thoughts 
of  others,  which  is  a  portion  of  the   phi- 
losophy   of     happiness.       Shelley     never 
liked   society    in    numbers,  —  it  harassed 
and  wearied  him;    but  neither  did  he  like 
loneliness,  and  usually,  when  alone,  shel- 
tered himself  against  memory  and  reflec- 
tion in   a   book.      But,  with   one   or   two 
whom  he  loved,  he  gave  way  to  wild  and 


520 


POEMS    WRITTEN  TV   1S19. 


joyous  spirits,  or  in  more  serious  conver- 
sation expounded  his  opinions  with  viva- 
city and  eloquence.  If  an  argument 
arose,  no  man  ever  argued  better.  He 
was  clear,  logical,  and  earnest  in  support- 
ing his  own  views;  attentive,  patient,  and 
impartial  while  listening  to  those  on  the 
adverse  side.  Had  not  a  wall  of  preju- 
dice been  raised  at  this  time  between  him 
and  his  countrymen,  how  many  would 
have  sought  the  acquaintance  of  one  whom 
to  know  was  to  love  and  to  revere  !  How 
many  of  the  more  enlightened  of  his  con- 
temporaries have  since  regretted  that  they 
did  not  seek  him  !  how  very  few  knew 
his  worth  while  he  lived  !  and,  of  those 
few,  several  were  withheld  by  timidity 
or  envy  from  declaring  their  sense  of 
it.  But  no  man  was  ever  more  enthusi- 
astically loved  —  more  looked  up  to,  as 
one  superior  to  his  fellows  in  intellectual 
endowments  and  moral  worth,  by  the  few 
who  knew  him  well,  and  had  sufficient 
nobleness  of  soul  to  appreciate  his  supe- 
riority. His  excellence  is  now  acknowl- 
edged; but,  even  while  admitted,  not 
duly  appreciated.  For  who,  except  those 
who  were  acquainted  with  him,  can  ima- 
gine his  unwearied  benevolence,  his  gen- 
erosity, his  systematic  forbearance?  And 
still  less  is  his  vast  superiority  in  intellec- 
tual attainments  sufficiently  understood  — 
his  sagacity,  his  clear  understanding,  his 
learning,  his  prodigious  memory.  All 
these,  as  displayed  in  conversation,  were 
known  to  few  while  he  lived,  and  are  now 
silent  in  the  tomb:  — 

"  Ahi  orbo  mondo  ingrato! 
Gran  cagion  hai  di  dover  pianger  meco, 
Che  quel  ben  ch'  era  in  te  perdut'  hai  seco." 

POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1819. 

LINES    WRITTEN    DURING    THE 
CASTLEREAGH   ADMINISTRA- 
TION. 

1. 

Corpsbs  are  cold  in  the  tomb; 
Stones  on  the  pavement  are  dumb; 
Abortions  are  dead  in  the  womb, 


And  their  mothers   look  pale  — ■  like  the 
white  shore 
Of  Albion,  free  no  more. 


Her  sons  are  as  stones  in  the  way  — 
They  are  masses  of  senseless  clay  — 
They  are  trodden,  and  move  not  away,  — 
The  abortion  with  which  she  travaileth 
Is  Liberty,  smitten  to  death. 


Then   trample    and    dance,    thou   Op- 
pressor ! 
For  thy  victim  is  no  redresser; 
Thou  art  sole  lord  and  possessor 
Of  her  corpses,  and  clods,  and  abortions 
—  they  pave 
Thy  path  to  the  grave. 


Hearest  thou  the  festival  din 
Of  Death,  and  Destruction,  and  Sin, 
And  Wealth  crying  Havoc  !  within? 
'T  is  the  bacchanal  triumph  which  makes 
Truth  dumb, 
Thine  epithalamium. 


Ay,  marry  thy  ghastly  wife  ! 
Let  Fear  and  Disquiet  and  Strife 
Spread    thy  couch  in   the  chamber  of 
Life  ! 
Marry   Ruin,   thou  Tyrant,  and  God  be 
thy  guide 
To  the  bed  of  the  bride  ! 

SONG   TO   THE   MEN   OF 
ENGLAND. 


Men  of  England,  wherefore  plough 
For  the  lords  who  lay  ye  low? 
Wherefore  weave  with  toil  and  care 
The  rich  robes  your  tyrants  wear? 


Wherefore  feed,  and  clothe,  and  save, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Those  ungrateful  drones  who  would 
Drain    your     sweat  —  nay,    drink    youi 
blood  ? 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN    1819. 


521 


Wherefore,  Bees  of  England,  forge 
Many  a  weapon,  chain,  and  scourge, 
That  these  stingless  drones  may  spoil 
The  forced  produce  of  your  toil? 


Have  ye  leisure,  comfort,  calm, 
Shelter,  food,  love's  gentle  balm? 
Or  what  is  it  ye  buy  so  dear 
With  your  pain  and  with  your  fear? 


The  seed  ye  sow,  another  reaps; 
The  wealth  ye  find,  another  keeps; 
The  robes  ye  weave,  another  wears; 
The  arms  ye  forge,  another  bears. 


Sow  seed,  — but  let  no  tyrant  reap; 
Find  wealth,  —  let  no  impostor  heap ; 
Weave  robes,  —  let  not  the  idle  wear; 
Forge  arms,  — in  your  defence  to  bear. 


Shrink  to  your  cellars,  holes,  and  cells; 

In  halls  ye  deck  another  dwells. 

Why  shake  the   chains  ye  wrought?     Ye 

see 
The  steel  ye  tempered  glance  on  ye. 


With    plough    and    spade,    and   hoe   and 

loom, 
Trace  your  grave,  and  build  your  tomb, 
And  weave  your  winding-sheet,  till  fair 
England  be  your  sepulchre. 


SIMILES   FOR   TWO    POLITICAL 
CHARACTERS    OF    18 19. 

(SIDMOUTH    AND    CASTLEREAGH. ) 


As  from  an  ancestral  oak 

Two  empty  ravens  sound  their  clarion, 
Yell  by  yell,  and  croak  by  croak, 
When  they  scent  the  noonday  smoke 
Of   fresh  human  carrion  :  — 


As  two  gibbering  night-birds  flit 

From  their  bowers  of  deadly  yew 
Thro'  the  night  to  frighten  it, 
When  the  moon  is  in  a  fit, 

And  the  stars  are  none,  or  few: 


As  a  shark  and  dog-fish  wait 

Under  an  Atlantic  isle, 
For  the  negro-ship,  whose  freight 
Is  the  theme  of   their  debate, 

Wrinkling  their  red  gills  the  while 


Are  ye,  two  vultures,  sick  for  battle, 

Two  scorpions  under  one  wet  stone, 
Two  bloodless  wolves  whose  dry  throats 

rattle, 
Two     crows    percht    on     the    murrained 
cattle, 
Two  vipers  tangled  into  one. 


FRAGMENT:    TO   THE    PEOPLE 
OF   ENGLAND. 

People  of  England,  ye  who  toil  and 
groan, 

Who  reap  the  harvests  which  are  not 
your  own, 

Who  weave  the  clothes  which  your  op- 
pressors wear, 

And  for  your  own  take  the  inclement  air; 

Who  build  warm  houses  .   .    . 

And  are  like  gods  who  give  them  all  they 
have, 

And  nurse  them  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave   .    .    . 


FRAGMENT:    "WHAT   MEN  GAIN 
FAIRLY."1 

What  men  gain  fairly  —  that  they  should 

possess, 
And  children  may  inherit  idleness, 

1  Perhaps     connected   with    that    immediately 
preceding.  —  Ed. 


522 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1S19. 


From  him  who  earns  it  —  This  is  under- 
stood: 
Private  injustice  may  be  general  good.^ 
But  he  who   gains  by  base    and    armed 

wrong, 
Or  guilty  fraud,  or  base  compliances, 
May  be  despoiled;  even  as  a  stolen  dress 
Is  stript  from  a  convicted  thief,  and  he 
Left  in  the  nakedness  of  infamy. 


A   NEW  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

1. 
God  prosper,  speed,  and  save, 
God  raise  from  England's  grave 

Her  murdered  Queen  ! 
Pave  with  swift  victory 
The  steps  of  Liberty, 
Whom  Britons  own  to  be 

Immortal  Queen. 


See,  she  comes  throned  on  high; 
On  swift  Eternity  ! 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
Millions  on  millions  wait 
Firm,  rapid,  and  elate, 
On  her  majestic  state  ! 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 


She  is  thine  own  pure  soul 
Moulding  the  mighty  whole, — 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
She  is  thine  own  deep  love 
Rained  down  from  heaven  above, 
Wherever  she  rest  or  move, 
God  save  our  Queen  ! 


Wilder  her  enemies 

In  their  own  dark  disguise,  — 

God  save  our  Queen  ! 
All  earthly  things  that  dare 
Her  sacred  name  to  bear, 
Strip  them,  as  kings  are,  bare; 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 


Be  her  eternal  throne 
Built  in  our  hearts  alone  — 
God  save  the  Queen 


Let  the  oppressor  hold 
Canopied  seats  of  gold; 
She  sits  enthroned  of  old 

O'er  our  hearts  Queen. 


Lips  toucht  by  seraphim 
Breathe  out  the  choral  hymn 

"  God  save  the  Queen !  " 
Sweet  as  if  angels  sang, 
Loud  as  that  trumpet's  clang 
Wakening  the  world's  dead  gang,. — 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 

SONNET:    ENGLAND    IN    18 19. 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying 
king, — 

Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race, 
who  flow 

Thro'  public  scorn,  —  mud  from  a  muddy 
spring,  — 

Rulers  who  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor 
know, 

But  leech-like  to  their  fainting  country 
cling, 

Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a 
blow,  — 

A  people  starved  and  stabbed  in  the  un- 
tilled  field,  — 

An  army,  which  liberticide  and  prey 

Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who 
wield 

Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt 
and  slay; 

Religion  Christless,  Godless  —  a  book 
sealed; 

A  Senate, —Time's  worst  statute  unre- 
pealed, — 

Are  graves,  from  which  a  glorious  Phan- 
tom may 

Burst,  to  illumine  our  tempestuous  day. 

AN  ODE:  TO  THE  ASSERTORS 
OF  LIBERTY. 

Arise,  arise,  arise  ! 
There  is  blood  on  the  earth  that  denies 
ye  bread; 

Be  your  wounds  like  eyes 
To  weep   for   the  dead,  the  dead,  the 

dead. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


523 


What  other  grief  were  it  just  to  pay? 
Your    sons,   your   wives,   your    brethren, 

were  they; 
Who  said   they  were  slain  on  the  battle 

day? 

Awaken,  awaken,  awaken  ! 
The  slave  and  the  tyrant  are  twin-bom 
foes; 
Be  the  cold  chains  shaken 
To  the  dust  where   your   kindred  re- 
pose, repose : 
Their   bones  in  the   grave  will  start  and 

move, 
When  they  hear  the  voices  of  those  they 

love, 
Most  loud  in  the  holy  combat  above. 

Wave,  wave  high  the  banner  ! 
When   Freedom  is  riding  to  conquest 
by: 
Tho'  the  slaves  that  fan  her 
Be   Famine   and    Toil,   giving  sigh  for 
sigh. 
And  ye  who  attend  her  imperial  car, 
Lift  not  your  hands  in  the  banded  war, 
But  in  her  defence  whose  children  ye  are. 

Glory,  glory,  glory, 
To  those  who  have  greatly  suffered  and 
done  ! 
Never  name  in  story 
Was  greater  than  that  which  ye  shall 
have  won. 
Conquerors    have    conquered    their    foes 

alone, 
Whose  revenge,  pride,   and  power  they 

have  overthrown : 
Ride  ye,  more  victorious,  over  your  own. 

Bind,  bind  every  brow 
With  crownals  of  violet,  ivy,  and  pine, 

Hide  the  blood-stains  now 
With    hues    which    sweet    nature    has 
made  divine: 
Green  strength,  azure  hope,  and  eternity: 
But  let  not  the  pansy  among  them  be; 
Ye  were  injured,  and   that  means  mem- 
ory. 

CANCELLED   STANZA. 

Gather,  O  gather, 
Foeman  and  friend  in  love  and  peace  ! 


Waves  sleep  together 
When  the  blasts  that  called   them  to 
battle,  cease. 
For  fangless  power  grown  tame  and  mild 
Is  at  play  with  Freedom's  fearless  child  — 
The  dove  and  the  serpent  reconciled  ! 


ODE  TO    HEAVEN. 

CHORUS   OF   SPIRITS. 

First  Spirit. 

Palace-roof  of  cloudless  nights ! 
Paradise  of  golden  lights  ! 

Deep,  immeasurable,  vast, 
Which  art  now,  and  which  wert  then 

Of  the  present  and  the  past, 
Of  the  eternal  where  and  when, 

Presence-chamber,  temple,  home, 

Ever-canopying  dome, 

Of  acts  and  ages  yet  to  come  ! 

Glorious  shapes  have  life  in  thee, 
Earth,  and  all  earth's  company; 

Living  globes  which  ever  throng 
Thy  deep  chasms  and  wildernesses; 

And  green  worlds  that  glide  along; 
And  swift  stars  with  flashing  tresses; 

And  icy  moons  most  cold  and  bright, 

And  mighty  suns  beyond  the  night, 

Atoms  of  intensest  light. 

Even  thy  name  is  as  a  god, 
Heaven  !   for  thou  art  the  abode 

Of  that  power  which  is  the  glass 
Wherein  man  his  nature  sees. 

Generations  as  they  pass 
Worship  thee  with  bended  knees. 

Their  unremaining  gods  and  they 

Like  a  river  roll  away: 

Thou  remainest  such  alway. 

Seco7id  Spirit. 

Thou  art  but  the  mind's  first  chamber, 

Round  which  its  young  fancies  clamber, 
Like  weak  insects  in  a  cave, 

Lighted  up  by  stalactites; 
But  the  portal  of  the  grave, 

Where  a  world  of  new  delights 
Will  make  thy  best  glories  seem 
But  a  dim  and  noonday  gleam 
From  the  shadow  of  a  dream ! 


5^4 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


Third  Spirit. 

Peace  !  the  abyss  is  wreathed  with  scorn 
At  your  presumption,  atom-born  ! 

What  is  heaven?  and  what  are  ye 
Who  its  brief  expanse  inherit? 

What  are  suns  and  spheres  which  flee 
With  the  instinct  of   that  spirit 

Of  which  ye  are  but  a  part? 

Drops  which  Nature's  mighty  heart 

Drives    through    thinnest   veins !     De- 
part ! 

What  is  heaven?  a  globe  of  dew, 

Filling  in  the  morning  new 

Some  eyed  flower  whose  young  leaves 
waken 

On  an  unimagined  world  : 
Constellated  suns  unshaken, 

Orbits  measureless,  are  furled 
In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere, 
With  ten  millions  gathered  there, 
To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 


ODE   TO   THE  WEST   WIND.* 


O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of 
Autumn's  being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchan- 
ter fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic 

red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:    O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 


1  This  poem  was  conceived  and  chiefly  written 
in  a  wood  that  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence, 
and  on  a  day  when  that  tempestuous  wind,  whose 
temperature  is  at  once  mild  and  animating,  was 
collecting  the  vapors  which  pour  down  the  autum- 
nal rains.  They  began,  as  I  foresaw,  at  sunset 
with  a  violent  tempest  of  hail  and  rain,  attended 
by  that  magnificent  thunder  and  lightning  peculiar 
to  the  Cisalpine  regions. 

The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  third  stanza  is  well  known  to  naturalists. 
The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  of  rivers, 
and  of  lakes,  iympathizes  with  that  of  the  land 
in  the  change  of  seasons,  and  is  consequently  in- 
fluenced by  the  winds  which  announce  it. 


The   winged   seeds,  where   they  lie  cold 

and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her    clarion    o'er    the    dreaming    earth, 

and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like   flocks  to  feed 

in  air) 
With  living  hues  and   odors    plain    and 

hill: 

Wild    Spirit,    which    art    moving    every- 
where; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;    hear,  O  hear! 


Thou  on   whose    stream,    mid   the  steep 

sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves 

are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven 

and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:   there  are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like    the   bright   hair   uplifted    from  the 

head 

Of    some    fierce   Maenad,  even  from  the 

dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 
The    locks    of     the    approaching    storm. 

Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which   this   closing 

night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will   burst: 
Oh  hear  ! 

in. 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from   his  summer 

dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled    by    the     coil    of    his     crystalline 

streams, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


525 


Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering    within    the    wave's    intenser 
day, 

All     overgrown    with     azure     moss     and 

flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  ! 

Thou 
For    whose    path    the    Atlantic's    level 

powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far 

below 
The     sea-blooms     and     the    oozy    woods 

which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 

fear, 
And    tremble    and    despoil     themselves. 

Oh  hear  ! 


If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,   and 
share 

The   impulse   of  thy   strength,   only   less 

free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !      If   even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The    comrade   of    thy    wanderings    over 

heaven, 
As    then,    when    to    outstrip    thy   skyey 

speed 
Scarce   seemed  a  vision;    I  would  ne'er 

have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee   in  prayer  in  my  sore 

need. 
Oh  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !      I  bleed  ! 

A  heavyweight  of  hours  has  chained  and 

bowed 
One  too  like  thee:   tameless,   and  swift, 

and  proud. 

v. 
Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my    leaves    are    falling   like   its 

own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 


Will    take   from  both   a  deep   autumnal 

tone, 
Sweet   tho'  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit 

fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  uni- 
verse 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new 
birth  ! 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguisht  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  man- 
kind ! 
Be  thro'  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     Oy  wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  be- 
hind? 


AN    EXHORTATION. 

Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air: 

Poets'  food  is  love  and  fame: 
If  in  this  wide  world  of  care 

Poets  could  but  find  the  same 
With  as  little  toil  as  they, 

Would  they  ever  change  their  hue 

As  the  light  chameleons  do, 
Suiting  it  to  every  ray 
Twenty  times  a  day? 

Poets  are  on  this  cold  earth, 

As  chameleons  might  be, 
Hidden  from  their  early  birth 

In  a  cave  beneath  the  sea; 
Where  light  is,  chameleons  change: 

Where  love  is  not,  poets  do: 

Fame  is  love  disguised:  if  few 
Find  either  never  think  it  strange 
That  poets  range. 

Vet  dare  not  stain  with  wealth  or  power 

A  poet's  free  and  heavenly  mind: 
If  bright  chameleons  should  devour 

Any  food  but  beams  and  wind, 
They  would  grow  as  earthly  soon 

As  their  brother  lizards  are. 

Children  of  a  sunnier  star, 

Spirits  from  beyond  the  moon, 

Oh  refuse  the  boon  ! 


526 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN 


[9. 


THE   INDIAN   SERENADE. 


I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ! 
To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 


The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
And  the  champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart;  — 
As  I  must  on  thine, 
Oh  !  beloved  as  thou  art ! 


Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 
I  die  !   I  faint !   I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast;  — 
Oh  !  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


CANCELLED   PASSAGE   OF   THE 
INDIAN    SERENADE. 

O  PILLOW  cold  and  wet  with  tears  ! 
Thou  breathest  sleep  no  more  ! 

TO   SOPHIA    [MISS   STACEY]. 
i. 

Thou  art  fair,  and  few  are  fairer 
Of  the  nymphs  of  earth  or  ocean; 

They  are  robes  that  fit  the  wearer  — - 
Those  soft  limbs  of  thine,  whose  mo- 
tion 

Ever  falls  and  shifts  and  glances 

As  the  life  within  them  dances. 


II. 

Thy  deep  eyes,  a  double  Planet, 
Gaze  the  wisest  into  madness 

With    soft    clear   fire,  —  the   wiads  that 
fan  it 
Are  those  thoughts  of  tender  gladness 

Which,  like  Zephyrs  on  the  billow, 

Make  thy  gentle  soul  their  pillow. 


If,  whatever  face  thou  paintest 

In  those  eyes  grows  pale  with  pleasure, 

If  the  fainting  soul  is  faintest 

When  it  hears  thy  harp's  wild  measure, 

Wonder  not.  that  when  thou  speakest 

Of  the  weak  my  heart  is  weakest. 


As  dew  beneath  the  wind  of  morning, 
As  the  sea  which  Whirlwinds  waken, 

As  the  birds  at  thunder's  warning, 
As  aught  mute  yet  deeply  shaken, 

As  one  who  feels  an  unseen  spirit 

Is  mine  heart  when  thine  is  near  it. 


TO    WILLIAM    SHELLEY. 

(With  what  truth  I  may  say  — 

Roma!   Roma!   Roma! 
Non  e  piu  come  era  prima !) 

I. 

My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom 

Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 
That  decaying  robe  consume 

Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid, 
Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb, 
But  beneath  this  pyramid 
Thou  art  not  —  if  a  thing  divine 
Like  thee  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 
Is  thy  mother's  grief  and  mine. 


Where  art  thou,  my  gentle  child  ! 

Let  me  think  thy  spirit  feeds, 
With  its  life  intense  and  mild, 

The  love  of  living  leaves  and  weeds. 
Among  these  tombs  and  ruins  wild;  — 

Let  me  think  that  thro'  low  seeds 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


527 


Of  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass, 
Into  their  hues  and  scents  may  pass 
A  portion 

TO   WILLIAM    SHELLEY. 

Thy  little  footsteps  on  the  sands 
Of  a  remote  and  lonely  shore; 

The  twinkling  of  thine  infant  hands, 
Where   now    the   worm   will    feed  no 
more : 

Thy  mingled  look  of  love  and  glee 

When  we  returned  to  gaze  on  thee. 


TO   MARY    SHELLEY. 

My  dearest   Mary,  wherefore  hast   thou 
gone, 

And  left  me  in  this  dreary  world  alone  ! 

Thy  form  is  here  indeed  —  a  lovely  one  — 

But  thou  art   fled,  gone  down  the  dreary 
road, 

That    leads    to    Sorrow's    most    obscure 
abode. 

Thou  sjttest   on   the   hearth  of  pale   de- 
spair, 

Where 

For  thine  own  sake  I  cannot  follow  thee. 


TO    MARY    SHELLEY. 

The  world  is  dreary, 

And  I  am  weary 
Of  wandering  on  without  thee,  Mary; 

A  joy  was  erewhile 

In  thy  voice  and  thy  smile, 
And  't   is  gone,  when  I  should   be  gone 

too,  Mary. 


ON  THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDO 
DA  VINCI  IN  THE  FLOREN- 
TINE  GALLERY. 


It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky, 
Upon    the  cloudy  mountain   peak  su- 
pine; 

Below,  far  lands  are  seen  tremblingly; 
Its  horror  and  its  beauty  I  divine. 


Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seems  to  He 
Loveliness  like  a  shadow,  from  which 
shine, 
Fiery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath, 
The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 


Yet  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which    turns    the    gazer's    spirit    into 
stone; 
Whereon    the    lineaments   of    that  dead 
face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 
Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace; 
'T   is    the    melodious    hue    of    beauty 
thrown 
Athwart  the  darkness  and   the  glare  of 

pain, 
Which     humanize    and     harmonize     the 
strain. 


And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grow, 

As  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock, 

Hairs   which   are  vipers,   and    they   curl 
and  flow 
And  their   long   tangles  in   each   other 
lock, 
And  with  unending  involutions  show 
Their   mailed   radiance,  as   it  were  to 
mock 
The   torture   and   the   death  within,   and 

saw 
The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 


And  from  a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  those   Gorgonian  eyes; 
Whilst  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 
Of  sense,   has   flitted  with   a  mad  sur- 
prise 
Out  of  the    cave   this  hideous   light  had 
cleft, 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth 
that  hies 
After  a  taper;    and  the  midnight  sky 
Flares,  alight  more  dread  than  obscurity. 


'T  is  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror; 
For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen 
glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error, 


528 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


Which  makes  a  thrilling  vapor  of  the 

air 

Become  a  and  ever-shifting  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there  — 

A   woman's    countenance,    with    serpent 

locks, 
Gazing   in  death   on  heaven  from  those 
wet  rocks. 


LOVE'S    PHILOSOPHY. 


The  Fountains  mingle  with  the  River 

And  the  Rivers  with  the  Ocean, 
The  winds  of  Henven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  spirit  meet  and  mingle. 

Why  not  I  with  thine?  — 


See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother, 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea: 
What  is  all  this  sweet  work  worth 

If  thou  kiss  not  me? 


FRAGMENT:    "FOLLOW  TO   THE 
DEEP   WOOD'S   WEEDS." 

Follow  to  the  deep  wood's  weeds, 

Follow  to  the  wild  briar  dingle, 

Where  we  seek  to  intermingle, 

And  the  violet  tells  her  tale 

To  the  odor-scented  gale, 

For  they  two  have  enough  to  do 

Of  such  work  as  I  and  you. 


THE   BIRTH    OF    PLEASURE. 

At  the  creation  of  the  Earth 
Pleasure,  that  divinest  birth, 
From  the  soil  of   Heaven  did  rise, 
Wrapt  in  sweet  wild  melodies  — 


Like  an  exhalation  wreathing 
To  the  sound  of  air  low-breathing 
Thro'  ^Eolian  pines  which  make 
A  shade  and  shelter  to  the  lake 
W'hence  it  rises  soft  and  slow; 
Her  life-breathing  [limbs]  did  flow 
In  the  harmony  divine 
Of  an  ever-lengthening  line 
Which  enwrapt  her  perfect  form 
With  a  beauty  clear  and  warm. 


FRAGMENT:    LOVE  THE 
UNIVERSE. 

And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow? 

Love  is  the  universe  to-day  — 
These  are  the  slaves  of  dim  to-morrow, 

Darkening  Life's  labyrinthine  way. 


FRAGMENT:  "A  GENTLE  STORY 
OF  TWO  LOVERS  YOUNG." 

A  gentle  story  of  two  lovers  young, 
Who  met  in  innocence  and  died  in  sor- 
row, 
And  of   one  selfish  heart,  whose  rancor 
clung 
Like  curses   on  them;    are  ye  slow  to 
borrow, 
The  lore  of  truth  from  such  a  tale? 
Or  in  this  world's  deserted  vale, 
Do  ye  not  see  a  star  of  gladness 
Pierce  the  shadow  of  its  sadness, 
When  ye  are   cold,  that   love  is  a  light 
sent 
From  Heaven,  which  none  shall  quench, 
to  cheer  the  innocent  ? 


FRAGMENT:    LOVE'S   ATMOS- 
PHERE. 

There  is  a  warm  and  gentle  atmosphere 
About   the    form  of  one  we   love,   and 

thus 
As  in  a  tender  mist  our  spirits  are 
Wrapt  in  the  of  that  which  is 

to  us 
The  health  of  life's  own  life. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1S1 


529 


FRAGMENT:     FELLOWSHIP  OF 

SOULS. 

I  AM  as  a  spirit  who  has  dwelt 
Within   his   heart   of  hearts,  and    I   have 

felt 
His     feelings,     and     have     thought     his 

thoughts,  and  known 
The    inmost    converse  of    his    soul,    the 

tone 
Unheard  but  in  the  silence  of  his  blood, 
When  all  the  pulses  in  their  multitude 
Image   the   trembling   calm    of    summer 

seas. 
I  have  unlockt  the  golden  melodies 
Of  his  deep  soul,  as  with  a  master-key, 
And  loosened    them  and  bathed  myself 

therein  — 
Even  as  an  eagle  in  a  thunder-mist 
Clothing  his  wings  with  lightning. 


FRAGMENT:     REMINISCENCE 
AND    DESIRE. 

Is  it  that  in  some  brighter  sphere 
We  part  from  friends  we  meet  with  here? 
Or  do  we  see  the  Future  pass 
Over  the  Present's  dusky  glass? 
Or  what  is  that  that  makes  us  seem 
To  patch  up  fragments  of  a  dream, 
Part  of  which  comes  true,  and  part 
Beats  and  trembles  in  the  heart? 


FRAGMENT:    FOREBODINGS. 

Is  not  to-day  enough?     Why  do  I  peer 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  day  to  come? 
Is  not  to-morrow  even  as  yesterday? 
And  will  the   day  that   follows  change 
thy  doom? 
Few  flowers  grow  upon  thy  wintry  way: 
And  who  waits  for  thee  in  that   cheer- 
less home 
Whence  thou  hast  fled,  whither  thou  must 

return 
Charged  with   the   load   that   makes  thee 
faint  and  mourn? 


FRAGMENT:    VISITATIONS   OF 
CALM   THOUGHTS. 

Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought  — 
Moods   like   the    memories  of  happier 

earth, 
Which  come  arrayed  in  thoughts  of  lit- 
tle worth, 
Like   stars  in    clouds  by  the  weak  winds 
enwrought, 
But  that   the   clouds  depart  and   stars 
remain, 
While  they  remain,  and  ye,  alas,  depart ! 


FRAGMENT:    POETRY    AND 
MUSIC. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  and  read  the  tales 
Of  mighty  poets  and  to  hear  the  while 

Sweet  music,  which  when   the  attention 
fails 
Fills  the  dim  pause  — 


FRAGMENT:    THE   TOMB   OF 
MEMORY. 

And  where  is  truth?  On  tombs?  for 
such  to  thee 

Has  been  my  heart  —  and  thy  dead 
memory 

Has  lain  from  childhood,  many  a  change- 
ful year  — 

Unchangingly  preserved  and  buried  there. 


FRAGMENT:    SONG    OF  THE 
FURIES. 


When  a  lover  clasps  his  fairest, 
Then  be  our  dread  sport  the  rarest, 
Their  caresses  were  like  the  chaff 
In  the  tempest,  and  be  our  laugh 
His  despair  —  her  epitaph  ! 


530 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  1819. 


When  a  mother  clasps  her  child, 
Watch  till  dusty  Death  has  piled 
His  cold  ashes  on  the  clay; 
She  has  loved  it  many  a  day  — 
She  remains,  —  it  fades  away. 


FRAGMENT:    "WAKE  THE 
SERPENT  NOT." 

Wake  the  serpent  not  —  lest  he 
Should  not  know  the  way  to  go,  — 
Let  him  crawl  which  yet  lies  sleeping 
Thro'  the  deep  grass  of  the  meadow; 
Not  a  bee  shall  hear  him  creeping, 
Not  a  may- fly  shall  awaken 
From  its  cradling  blue-bell  shaken,     • 
Not  the  starlight  as  he'  s  sliding 
Thro'  the  grass  with  silent  gliding. 


FRAGMENT:    RAIN   AND   WIND. 

The  fitful  alternations  of  the  rain, 
When  the  chill  wind,  languid  as  with  pain 
Of    its    own    heavy  moisture,  here    and 

there 
Drives    thro'    the  gray  and  beamless  at- 
mosphere. 


FRAGMENT:    A  TALE   UNTOLD. 

One  sung  of  thee  who  left   the  tale  un- 
told, 
Like  the  false   dawns  which   perish  in 
the  bursting: 
Like  empty   cups  of  wrought  and  daedal 
gold, 
Which  mock   the  lips  with   air,  when 
they  are  thirsting. 


FRAGMENT:    TO    ITALY. 

As  the  sunrise  to  the  night, 

As  the  north  wind  to  the  clouds, 

As  the  earthquake's  fiery  flight, 
Ruining  mountain  solitudes, 

Everlasting  Italy, 

Be  those  hopes  and  fears  on  thee. 


FRAGMENT:    WINE  OF 
EGLANTINE. 

I  am  drunk  with  the  honey  wine 

Of  the  noon-unfolded  eglantine, 

Which  fairies  catch  in  hyacinth  bowls: — ■ 

The  bats,  the  dormice,  and  the  moles 

Sleep  in  the  walls  or  under  the  sward 

Of  the  desolate  Castle  yard; 

And  when  't  is  spilt  on  the  summer  earth, 

Or  its  fumes  arise  among  the  dew, 
Their  jocund  dreams  are  full  of  mirth, 
They  gibber  their  joy  in  sleep;    for  few 
Of  the  fairies  bear  those  bowls  so  new  ! 


FRAGMENT:    A   ROMAN'S 
CHAMBER. 


In  the  cave  which  wild  weeds  cover 
Wait  for  thine  ethereal  lover; 
For  the  pallid  moon  is  waning, 

O'er  the  spiral  cypress  hanging, 
And  the  moon  no  cloud  is  staining. 


was  once  a  Roman's  chamber, 
Where  he  kept  his  darkest  revels, 
And  the  wild  weeds  twine  and  clam- 
ber; 
It  was  then  a  chasm  for  devils. 


FRAGMENT:  ROME  AND 
NATURE. 

Rome  has  fallen,  ye  see  it  lying 
Heapf  in  undistinguisht  ruin: 
Nature  is  alone  undying. 

VARIATION   OF  THE   LYRIC  TO 
THE   MOON. 

{Prometheus  Unbound,  Act  IV.) 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 
Ga7.es  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds  ; 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1820. 


53' 


As  a  gray  and  empty  mist 
Lies  like  solid  amethyst 
Over  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds, 
When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow; 
As  a  strain  of  sweetest  sound 
Wraps  itself  the  wind  around 
Until  the  voiceless  wind  be  music  too; 
As  aught  dark,  vain,  and  dull, 
Basking  in  what  is  beautiful, 
Is  full  of  light  and  love. 
1819. 

CANCELLED    STANZA   OF  THE 
MASK   OF   ANARCHY. 

(for  which  stanzas  lxviii,  lxix  have 
been  substituted.) 

From  the  cities  where  from  caves, 
Like  the  dead  from  putrid  graves, 
Troops  of  starvelings  gliding  come, 
Living  Tenants  of  a  tomb. 

NOTE    BY   MRS.   SHELLEY. 

Shelley  loved  the  People;  and  re- 
spected them  as  often  more  virtuous,  as 
always  more  suffering,  and  therefore  more 
deserving  of  sympathy,  than  the  great. 
He  believed  that  a  clash  between  the  two 
classes  of  society  was  inevitable,  and  he 
eagerly  ranged  himself  on  the  people's 
side.  He  had  an  idea  of  publishing  a 
series  of  poems  adapted  expressly  to 
commemorate  their  circumstances  and 
wrongs.  He  wrote  a  few;  but,  in  those 
days  of  prosecution  for  libel,  they  could 
not  be  printed.  They  are  not  among  the 
best  of  his  productions,  a  writer  being 
always  shackled  when  he  endeavors  to 
write  down  to  the  comprehension  of  those 
who  could  not  understand  or  feel  a  highly 
imaginative  style ;  but  they  show  his  earn- 
estness, and  with  what  heartfelt  compas- 
sion he  went  home  to  the  direct  point  of 
injury  —  that  oppression  is  detestable  as 
being  the  parent  of  starvation,  nakedness, 
and  ignorance.  Besides  these  outpour- 
ings of  compassion  and  indignation,  he 
had  meant  to  adorn  the  cause  he  loved 
with  loftier  poetry  of  glory  and  triumph; 


such  is  the  scope  of  the  "  Ode  to  the  As- 
sertors  of  Liberty."  He  sketched  also 
a  new  version  of  our  national  anthem,  as 
addressed  to  Liberty. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  1820. 

THE   SENSITIVE   PLANT. 

Part  First. 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds   fed  it  with  silver 

dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the 

light, 
And  closed   them   beneath   the  kisses  of 

night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere; 
And   each  flower  and    herb    on    Earth's 

dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with 
bliss 

In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilder- 
ness, 

Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's 
sweet  want, 

As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain 
wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mixt  with  fresh 
odor,  sent 

From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  in- 
strument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip 

tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on   their   eyes  in   the  stream's 

recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion 
so  pale, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


That   the   light  of    its   tremulous  bells  is 

seen 
Thro'  their  pavilions  of  tender  green; 

And  the  hyacinth   purple  and  white  and 

blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells   a  sweet  peal 

anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph   to  the  bath 

addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing 

breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed    thro'    clear    dew    on    the    tender 
sky; 

And  the  jessamine   faint,  and  the  sweet 

tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant 
bosom 

Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embower- 
ing blossom, 

With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting 
thro' 

Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue. 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 
And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 
And  around    them   the   soft   stream    did 

glide  and  dance 
With    a    motion    of    sweet    sound    and 

radiance. 

And   the   sinuous  paths   of  lawn   and  of 

moss, 
Which   led  thro'    the   garden  along    and 

across, 
Some   open  at  once   to  the   sun  and  the 

breeze, 
Some  lost  among    bowers  of  blossoming 

trees, 


Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate 
bells 

As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels, 

And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day 
droopt  too 

Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and 
blue, 

To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  even- 
ing dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 

The  flowers   (as   an  infant's  awakening 

eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 

When    Heaven's    blithe  winds  had  un- 
folded them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor 
shed, 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love 
make  dear 

Wrapt  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmos- 
phere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant  which  could  give 

small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to 

the  root, 
Received  more   than   all,   it   loved  more 

than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong 

to  the  giver, 

For    the    Sensitive    Plant   has   no   bright 

flower ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower; 
It  loves,  even   like  Love,  its    deep  heart 

is  full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The   light  winds   which   from   unsustain- 

ing  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings; 
The  beams  which  dart   from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


533 


Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  fhe  gleam  of  the  living  grass; 

• 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides 

high, 
Then    wander    like     spirits     among    the 

spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it 

bears; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide, 
Which  like   a  sea  o'er  the   warm   earth 

glide, 
In  which  every  sound,   and    odor,    and 

beam, 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst    the    lagging    hours    of    the    day 

went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And    when     evening     descended     from 

heaven  above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,   and  the  air 

was  all  love, 
And  delight,    tho'   less    bright,   was    far 

more  deep 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of 

sleep, 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
insects  were  drowned 

In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound; 

Whose  waves  never  mark,  tho'  they  ever 
impress 

The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  conscious- 
ness; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as   the   day  might 

fail, 
And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 
Were    mixed    with    the    dreams    of    the 

Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite, 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 


Part  Second. 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers  did  they  waken  or 

dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose    form  was   upborne  by  a   lovely 

mind 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien 

and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath   the 

ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even: 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like    the    lamps   of  the    air  when   night 

walks  forth, 
Laught  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the 

Earth  ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 

But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flush- 
ing face 

Told,  whilst  the  morn  kist  the  sleep  from 
her  eyes 

That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than 
Paradise : 

As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet 

sake  * 

Had    deserted    heaven    while    the    stars 

were  awake, 
As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 
Tho'  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him 

from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest ; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her 

breast, 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion 

behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod, 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its   light  vestige,   with  shadowy 

sweep, 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the   dark  green 

deep. 


534 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1820. 


I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of    that  garden 

sweet 
Rejoiced    in    the    sound    of    her    gentle 

feet; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  thro'   all  their 

frame. 

•She    sprinkled    bright    water    from    the 

stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny 

beam; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She    emptied    the    rain    of    the    thunder 

showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her   tender 

hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier 

bands; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants 

she 
Could    never    have     nurst    them    more 

tenderly. 

And    all    killing    insects    and    gnawing 

worms, 
And    things    of    obscene    and    unlovely 

forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild-flowers 

full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For    the    poor    banisht    insects,    whose 

intent, 
Altho'  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike   ephemeris 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,    and  soft 

moths  that  kiss 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm 

not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 

Where  butterflies   dream  of    the  life  to 

come, 
She  left  clinging  round   the   smooth  and 

dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 
This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 


Thus    moved    thro'   the    garden    minis* 

tering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere   the  first  leaf  looked  brown  — 

she  died ! 

Part  Third. 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair, 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened, 

were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baiae,  ere  luminous 
She     floats     up     thro'     the    smoke    of 

Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and 

slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and 

low; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath, 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And    the    smell,  cold,    oppressive,    and 

dank, 
Sent     thro'     the     pores    of    the    coffin 

plank; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among 

the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did 

pass ; 
From    their    sighs    the    wind    caught    a 

mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,   and  gave  groan 

for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold   and 

foul, 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its 

soul, 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Tho'  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and 

bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 
The   rose   leaves,   like   flakes  of  crimson 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


53 : 


raved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and 

wan, 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying 

man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  by  leaf,  day  after  day, 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray, 

and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is 

dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts   on   the  dry  wind 

past; 
Their    whistling    noise    made    the    birds 

aghast. 

And   the  gusty  winds   waked  the  winged 

seeds, 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till    they    clung    round     many    a    sweet 

flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which   they  were 

set; 
And    the  eddies    drove    them    here  and 

there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then    the    rain     came     down,    and   the 

broken  stalks, 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks; 
And    the     leafless    network    of    parasite 

bowers 
Massed  into  ruin;    and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between   the   time  of  the  wind   and  the 

snow, 
All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 
Whose  coarse   leaves   were    splasht   with 

many  a  speck, 
Like    the    water-snake's   belly    and    the 

toad's  back. 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels 
rank, 

And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hem- 
lock dank, 


Stretcht  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank. 
And    stifled   the    air   till    the  dead    wind 
stank. 

And  plants  at  whose  names  the  verse 
feels  loath, 

Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  under- 
growth, 

Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and 
blue, 

Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and 
mould 

Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground 
cold; 

Tale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 

With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  ani- 
mated ! 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum, 
Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb, 
And  at  its  outlet  flags  huge  as  stakes 
Dammed  it   up   with   roots  knotted  like 
water-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still, 
The    vapors    arose  which   have  strength 

to  kill : 
At  morn  they  were   seen,    at  noon  they 

were  felt, 
At    night    they    were    darkness    no    star 

could  melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen;    every    branch    on  which    they 

alit 
By  a  venomous  blight   was  burned  and 

bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant  like  one  forbid 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves  which  together  grew 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches 

soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn; 
The  sap  shrank  to   the  root  thro'  every 

pore, 
As  blood    to   a  heart    that  will    beat  no 

more. 


536 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1820. 


For   winter    came :    the    wind    was    his 

whip: 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip: 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills 
And  they  clankt  at  his  girdle  like  man- 
acles; 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a 
sound 

The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water 
bound; 

He  came,  fiercely  driven,  in  his  chariot- 
throne 

By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  Arctic  zone. 

Then    the   weeds   which    were   forms   of 

living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And    under   the   roots   of    the   Sensitive 

Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want; 
The    birds    dropt  stiff    from    the    frozen 

air 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked 

and  bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain 
And  its   dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs 

again, 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which   to   the    drops    of    the   thaw-rain 

grew; 

And    a    northern    whirlwind,  wandering 

about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child 

out, 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy 

and  stiff, 
And    snapt     them    off    with     his     rigid 

griff. 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came 

back 
The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck; 
But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and 

docks,  and  darnels, 
Rose   like   the   dead    from    their   ruined 

charnels. 


Conclusion. 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess;    but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odors  there, 
In  truth  have  never  past  away: 
'T  is  we,    't  is    ours,    are   changed;    not 
they. 

For  love  and  beauty  and  delight, 

There    is   no    death    nor    change :     their 

might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 


CANCELLED    PASSAGE. 

Their  moss  rotted  off  them,  flake  by 
flake, 

Till  the  thick  stalk  stuck  like  a  murder- 
er's stake, 

Where  rags  of  loose  flesh  yet  tremble  on 
high, 

Infecting  the  winds  that  wander  by. 


A   VISION   OF  THE   SEA. 

'T  is  the  terror   of    tempest.     The  rags 

of  the  sail 
Are  flickering  in  ribbons  within  the  fierce 

gale; 
From  the   stark   night  of  vapors  the  dim 

rain  is  driven, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1S20. 


53? 


And    when    lightning    is    loost,    like   a 
deluge  from  heaven, 

She  sees  the  black  trunks  of  the  water- 
spouts spin, 

And  bend,  as  if  heaven  was  ruining  in, 

Which  they  seemed  to  sustain  with  their 
terrible  mass 

As  if  ocean  had  sunk  from  beneath  them  : 
they  pass 

To  their  graves  in  the  deep  with  an  earth- 
quake of  sound, 

And  the   waves  and  the  thunders  made 
silent  around 

Leave  the  wind  to  its  echo.     The  vessel, 
now  tost 

Thro'  the  low-trailing   rack  of   the  tem- 
pest, is  lost 

In  the  skirts  of  the   thunder-cloud:    now 
down  the  sweep 

Of  the  wind-cloven  wave  to  the   chasm 
of  the  deep 

It    sinks,    and    the  walls    of    the  watery   j 
vale 

Whose    depths    of    dread   calm   are   un-   ! 
moved  by  the  gale, 

Dim     mirrors    of     ruin     hang     gleaming  ! 
about : 

While  the  surf,  like  a  chaos  of  stars,  like 
a  rout 

Of  death-flames,   like  whirlpools  of  fire- 
flowing  iron 

With  splendor  and  terror  the  black  ship 
environ, 

Or  like  sulphur-flakes  hurled  from  a  mine 
of  pale  fire 

In    fountains  spout   o'er  it.      In  many  a 
spire 

The  pyramid-billows  with  white  points  of 
brine 

In  the  cope  of  the  lightning  inconstantly 
shine, 

As  piercing  the  sky  from  the  floor  of  the 
sea. 

The  great  ship  seems  splitting !   it  cracks 
as  a  tree, 

While    an    earthquake    is   splintering  its 
root,  ere  the  blast 

Of      the     whirlwind     that     stript     it     of 
branches  has  past. 

The  intense  thunder-balls  which  are  rain- 
ing from  heaven 

Have   shattered    its   mast,    and  it  stands 
black  and  riven. 


The  chinks  suck  destruction.      The  heavy 

dead  hulk 
On    the    living     sea    rolls  an    inanimate 

bulk, 
Like  a  corpse   on  the  clay  which  is  hun- 
gering to  fold 
Its    corruption    around   it.       Meanwhile, 

from  the  hold, 
One  deck  is  burst  up  by  the  waters  below, 
And  it  splits  like  the  ice  when  the  thaw- 
breezes  blow 
O'er  the  lakes  of  the  desert !     Who  sit 

on  the  other? 
Is  that  all  the  crew  that  lie  burying  each 

other, 
Like    the   dead    in  a   breach,    round   the 

foremast  ?     Are  those 
Twin  tigers,  who  burst,  when  the  waters 

arose, 
In  the  agony  of  terror,  their  chains  in  the 

hold; 
(What   now   makes   them   tame,  is  what 

then  made  them  bold;) 
Who     crouch,    side    by    side,    and    have 

driven,  like  a  crank, 
The  deep   grip   of  their   claws  thro'    the 

vibrating  plank. 
Are  these  all?     Nine  weeks  the  tall  ves- 
sel had  lain 
On  the  windless  expanse  of  the  watery 

plain, 
Where    the    death-darting     sun    cast    no 

shadow  at  noon, 
And  there  seemed  to  be  fire  in  the  beams 

of  the  moon, 
Till  a  lead-colored    fog  gathered  up  from 

the  deep 
Whose  breath  was  quick  pestilence ;  then, 

the  cold  sleep 
Crept,    like    blight    thro'   the   ears    of    a 

thick  field  of   corn, 
O'er  the  populous  vessel.     And  even  and 

morn, 
With  their  hammocks  for  coffins  the  sea- 
men aghast 
Like  dead  men    the   dead   limbs  of  their 

comrades  cast 
Down  the  deep,  which   closed  on   them 

above  and  around, 
And   the    sharks  and   the   dog-fish    their 

grave-clothes  unbound, 
And   were   glutted    like    Jews  with    this 

manna  rained  down 


53S 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


From    God    on    their    wilderness.     One 

after  one 
The  mariners  died;  on  the  eve  of  this  day, 
When    the    tempest    was    gathering    in 

cloudy  array, 
But  seven  remained.      Six   the  thunder 

has  smitten, 
And  they  lie  black  as  mummies  on  which 

Time  has  written 
His  scorn  of  the  embalmer;    the  seventh, 

from  the  deck 
Au  oak-splinter  pierced  thro'    his  breast 

and  his  back, 
And  hung  out  to   the   tempest,  a  wreck 

on  the  wreck. 
No  more?     At   the    helm  sits  a  woman 

more  fair 
Than   heaven,  when,  unbinding  its  star- 
braided  hair, 
It  sinks  with   the   sun  on   the   earth  and 

the  sea. 
She  clasps  a  bright  child  on   her  upgath- 

ered  knee, 
It  laughs  at  the  lightning,  it  mocks  the 

mixed  thunder 
Of  the  air  and  the  sea,  with  desire  and 

with  wonder 
It  is   beckoning    the  tigers   to    rise  and 

come  near, 
It  would  play  with  those  eyes  where  the 

radiance  of  fear 
Is    outshining    the    meteors;     its    bosom 

beats  high, 
The   heart-fire   of    pleasure  has  kindled 

its  eye; 
While  its  mother's  is  lustreless.      "  Smile 

not,  my  child, 
But  sleep  deeply  and  sweetly,  and  so  be 

beguiled 
Of    the   pang   that    awaits   us,   whatever 

that  be, 
So   dreadful    since   thou    must    divide   it 

with  me  ! 
Dream,    sleep !     This     pale    bosom    thy 

cradle  and  bed, 
Will  it  rock  thee  not,  infant?     'Tis  beat- 
ing wjth  dread  ! 
Alas!   what    is  life,  what   is   death,  what 

are  we, 
That  when  the  ship   sinks  we   no  longer 

may  be? 
What  !   to  see   thee  no  more,  and  to  feel 

thee  no  more? 


To  be  after  life  what  we  have  been  be- 
fore? 
Not  to  touch  those  sweet  hands?     Not 

to  look  on  those  eyes, 
Those  lips,  and  that  hair,  all  the  smiling 

disguise 
Thou  yet  wearest,  sweet  spirit,  which  I, 

day  by  day, 
Have  so  long  called  my  child,  but  which 

now  fades  away 
Like  a  rainbow,  and  I   the    fallen  show- 
er? "     Lo  !  the  ship 
Is  settling,  it  topples,  the  leeward  ports 

dip; 
The  tigers  leap  up  when  they  feel  the 

slow  brine 
Crawling  inch  by  inch    on    them,   hair, 

ears,  limbs,  and  eyne, 
Stand   rigid  with  horror;    a  loud,   long, 

hoarse  cry 
Bursts  at  once  from  their  vitals  tremen- 
dously, 
And  't  is   borne   down   the  mountainous 

vale  of  the  wave, 
Rebounding,  like  thunder,  from  crag  to 

cave, 
Mixt  with  the  clash  of  the  lashing  rain, 
Hurried   on   by  the   might  of  the   hurri* 

cane : 
The  hurricane  came   from  the  west,  and 

past  on 
By  the  path   of  the  gate  of  the   eastern 

sun, 
Transversely  dividing  the   stream   of  the 

storm; 
As  an  arrowy  serpent,  pursuing  the  form 
Of   an  elephant,  bursts  thro'   the  brakes 

of  the  waste. 
Black  as  a  cormorant  the  screaming  blast, 
Between    ocean     and     heaven,    like     an 

ocean,  past, 
Till  it  came  to  the  clouds  on  the  verge  of 

the  world 
Which,  based  on  the  sea  and   to  heaven 

upcurled, 
Like  columns  and  walls  did  surround  and 

sustain 
The  dome  of  the   tempest;  it   rent   them 

in  twain, 
As  a  flood  rends  its  barriers  of  mountain- 
ous crag : 
And  the  dense  clouds  in  many  a  ruin  and 


POEMS   WRITTEN  TV  1820. 


539 


Like  the  stones  of  a  temple  ere  earth-  !  Of  solid  bones  crusht  by  the  infinite 
quake  has  past,  stress 

Like  the  dust  of  its  fall,  on  the  whirl-  ;  Of  the  snake's  adamantine  voluminous- 
wind  are  cast:  ness; 

They  are  scattered  like  foam  on  the   tor-  I   And  the  hum  of  the  hot  blood  that  spouts 


rent :  and  where 


and  rains 


The  wind  has  burst  out  from  the  chasm,   '   Where  the  gripe  of  the  tiger  has  wounded 


from  the  air 


the 


Of    clear    morning,    the     beams    of    the   I    Swollen  with  rage,  strength,  and  effort; 


flow 


the  whirl  and  the  splash 


Unimpeded,   keen,   golden,   and  crystal-   !   As  of  some  hideous  engine  whose  brazen 


line, 


teeth  smash 


Banded  armies  of    light  and   of    air;    at  ,   The    thin    winds    and     soft    waves    into 


one  gate 
They  encounter,  but  interpenetrate. 
And  that  breach  in  the  tempest  is  widen- 
ing away, 
And  the  caverns  of  cloud  are  torn  up  by 

the  day, 
And  the  fierce  winds   are  sinking  with 

weary  wings 
Lulled    by    the    motion    and    murmur- 

ings, 
And  the  long  glassy  heave  of  the  rocking 

sea, 
And  overhead  glorious,  but  dreadful  to 

see 
The  wrecks  of  the  tempest,  like  vapors 

of  gold, 
Are   consuming  in  sunrise.     The   heapt 

waves  behold 
The  deep  calm  of  blue  heaven  dilating 

above, 
And,    like    passions    made    still    by    the 

presence  of  Love, 
Beneath    the   clear   surface    reflecting  it 

slide 
Tremulous  with  soft  influence;  extending 

its  tide 
From  the  Andes  to   Atlas,  round   moun- 
tain and  isle, 
Round  sea-birds  and  wrecks,  paved  with 

heaven's  azure  smile, 
The  wide  world  of    waters  is  vibrating. 

Where 
Is  the  ship?     On  the  verge    of  the  wave 

where  it  lay 
One  tiger  is  mingled  in  ghastly  affray 
With    a  sea-snake.     The   foam   and   the 

smoke  of  the  battle 
Stain  the  clear  air  with  sunbows;  the  jar, 

and  the  rattle 


thunder;  the  screams 

And  hissings  crawl  fast  o'er  the   smooth 
ocean  streams, 
i   Each  sound  like  a  centipede.     Near  this 
commotion, 

A  blue  shark  is  hanging:  within  the    blue 
ocean, 
I  The  fin-winged  tomb  of  the  victor.     The 
other 

Is  winning  his  way  from  the  fate  of  his 
brother, 
i  To  his  own  with  the  speed  of  despair. 

Lo  !   a  boat 
i   Advances;    twrelve   rowers   with  the   im- 
pulse of  thought 
'   Urge  on  the  keen  keel,  the  brine  foams. 
At  the  stern 

Three   marksmen   stand   levelling.      Hot 
bullets  burn 

In    the    breast    of  the    tiger,   which    yet 
bears  him  on 

To  his  refuge  and  ruin.      One   fragment 
alone, 

'T  is   dwindling   and  sinking,    't   is   now 
almost  gone, 

Of  the  wreck  of  the  vessel  peers  out   of 
the  sea. 

With  her  left  hand  she  grasps  it   impetu- 
ously, 

With  her  right  she   sustains   her    fair   in- 
fant.    Death,  Fear, 

Love,  Beauty,    are   mixt    in    the   atmos- 
phere; 

Which    trembles     and     burns    with     the 
fervor  of  dread 

Around  her  wild   eyes,  her  bright  hand, 
and  her  head, 

Like  a  meteor  of   light   o'er   the  waters) 
her  child 


540 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


Is  yet   smiling,   and    playing,   and  mur- 

And his  burning  plumes  outspread, 

muring;  so  smiled 

Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

The  false   deep   ere  the  storm.     Like  a 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 

sister  and  brother 

As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

The  child  and  the   ocean  still  smile  on 

Which    an    earthquake    rocks    and 

each  other, 

swings, 

Whilst 

An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 

THE   CLOUD. 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the 

lit  sea  beneath, 

I  bring  fresh  showers   for  the  thirsting 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 

flowers, 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 

From  the  depths  of  heaven  above, 

I  bear  lifjht  shade  for  the  leaves  when 

With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy 

laid 

nest, 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

From    my  wings    are    shaken    the  dews 

that  waken 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 

When    rockt   to  rest    on    their   mother's 

Glides    glimmering    o'er    my   fleece-like 

breast, 

floor, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 

I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And   wherever   the    beat   of    her  unseen 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 

feet, 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's 

thin  roof, 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 

And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

And  all  the  night  't  is  my  pillow  white, 

Like  a  swarm  of   golden  bees, 

While   I   sleep  in   the   arms   of    the 

When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built 

blast. 

tent, 

Sublime     on    the    towers    of    my    skyey 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 

bowers, 

Like   strips   of    the   sky   fallen    thro'  me 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 

on  high, 

In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits; 

these. 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

I  bind   the   sun's   throne   with  a  burning 

Lured  by  the  lovj  of  the  genii  that  move 

zone, 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 

And    the    moon's  with   a    girdle   of 

Over   the  rills,    and  the   crags,    and   the 

pearl; 

hills,     '        ' 

The    volcanoes    are    dim,    and   the   stars 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 

reel  and  swim, 

Wherever  he  dream,  under   mountain   or 

When   the  whirlwinds  my  banner  un- 

stream, 

furl. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 

From    cape   to   cape    with   a   bridge-like 

And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue 

shape, 

smile, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

The  sanguine   sunrise,   with   his    meteor 

The     triumphal     arch     thro'     which     I 

eyes, 

march 

POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


54i 


With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained 
to  my  chair, 
Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The    sphere-fire    above    its    soft    colors 
wove, 
While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing 
below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I    pass    thro'    the    pores    of    the   ocean 
and  shores; 
I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after    the    rain  when  with    never  a 
stain, 
The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with   their 
convex  gleams, 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 
And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost 
from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like    an  unbodied    joy  whose   race    is 
just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight; 

Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight 


Thou    art    unseen,  but   yet   I  hear  thy 
shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see, — we  feel  that  it 
is  there. 


All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains    out    her   beams,   and 
heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with   hopes   and  fears   it 
heeded  not; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  over- 
flows her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among    the    flowers  and   grass,   which 
screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these 
heavy-winged  thieves: 


542 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music 
doth  surpass : 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we   feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want. 

What  object  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What    fields,    or    waves,   or    moun- 
tains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What    love   of    thine   own    kind?   what 
ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou    lovest :    but   ne'er   knew    love's 
sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow   in  such  a 
crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs   are   those  that  tell 
of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 


Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of 
the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should   listen  then,  as  I  am 
listening  now. 


ODE   TO   LIBERTY. 

Yet,  Freedom,  yet  thy  banner  torn  but  flying, 
Streams  like  a  thunder  storm  against  the  wind. 

Byron. 


A  glorious  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  the  nations :    Liberty 
From  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  tower, 
o'er  Spain, 
Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky, 
Gleamed.      My  soul  spurned  the  chains 
of  its  dismay, 
And,  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song, 
Clothed  itself,  sublime  and  strong; 
As    a    young    eagle    soars    the    morning 
clouds  among, 
Hovering  in  verse  o'er  its  accustomed 
prey; 
Till  from  its  station  in  the  heaven  of 
fame 
The   Spirit's   whirlwind    rapt    it,   and 
the  ray 
Of    the    remotest    sphere    of    living 
flame 
Which  paves  the  void  was  from   behind 
it  flung, 
As  foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when 

there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  deep :    I  will  record 
the  same. 


IT, 


The  Sun  and  the  serenest  Moon  sprang 
forth: 
The    burning  stars  of  the   abyss  were 
hurled 


POEMS    WRPrTEN  IN  1820. 


543 


Into  the  depths  of  heaven.     The  daedal 
earth, 
That  island  in  the  ocean  of  the  world, 
Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air: 
But  this  divinest  universe 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse, 
For  thou  wert  not;  but  power  from  worst 
producing  worse, 
The   spirit  of  the  beasts  was   kindled 
there, 
And  of  the  birds,  and  of  the  watery 
forms, 
And  there  was  war   among  them,  and 
despair 
Within   them,  raging  without  truce 
or  terms; 
The  bosom  of  their  violated  nurse 

Groaned,  for  beasts  warred  on  beasts, 

and  worms  on  worms, 
And  men   on  men;    each  heart  was  as 
a  hell  of  storms. 


Man,  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 

His  generations  under  the  pavilion 
Of  the  sun's  throne  :  palace  and  pyramid, 
Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarm- 
ing million, 
Were,  as  to  mountain-wolves  their  ragged 
caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  savage,  cunning,  blind,   and 
rude, 
For  thou  wert  not;   but   o'er  the   popu- 
lous solitude, 
Like  one  fierce  cloud  over  a  waste  of 
waves 
Hung  Tyranny;    beneath,   sate  dei- 
fied 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves: 
Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide 
Anarchs   and    priests  who   fled   on   gold 
and  blood, 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls 

are  dyed, 
Drove   the    astonished   herds   of    men 
from  every  side. 


The    nodding    promontories,    and    blue 
isles, 
And  cloud-like  mountains,  and  dividu- 
ous  waves 


Of  Greece,  baskt   glorious  in  the   open 
smiles 
Of    favoring  heaven :    from  their  en- 
chanted caves 
Prophetic  echoes  flung  dim  melody. 
On  the  unapprehensive  wild 
The  vine,  the  corn,  the  olive  mild, 
Grew  savage  yet,  to  human  use  unrecon- 
ciled; 
And,   like    unfolded    flowers    beneath 
the  sea, 
Like  the  man's   thought  dark  in  the 
infant's  brain, 
Like  aught   that   is  which   wraps  what 
is  to  be, 
Art's  deathless  dreams  lay  veiled  by 
many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone;    and   yet  a  speechless 
child, 
Verse  murmured,  and   Philosophy  did 

strain 
Her  lidless  eyes  for  thee;   when  o'er 
the  /Egean  main 


Athens  arose :    a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple    crags   and  sil- 
ver towers 
Of  battlemented  cloud,  as  in  derision 

Of  kingliest  masonry:  the  ocean-floors 
Pave  it;    the  evening  sky  pavilions  it; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By    thunder-zoned    winds,     each 
head 
Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sunfire  gar- 
landed, 
A  divine  work  !     Athens  diviner  yet 
Gleamed  with   its   crest  of  columns, 
on  the  will 
Of  man,    as   on  a  mount   of  diamond, 
set; 
For  thou  wert,  and  thine  all-creative 
skill 
Peopled  with  forms  that  mock  the  eter- 
nal dead 
In  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
Which  was   thine    earliest  throne  and 
latest  oracle. 


Within    the    surface  of    Time's    fleeting 
river 


544 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1820. 


Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  cannot  pass  away ! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sages  thunder 
With  an  earth-awakening  blast 
Thro'  the  caverns  of  the  past; 
Religion    veils    her    eyes:     Oppression 
shrinks  aghast : 
A  winged  sound  of  joy,  and  love,  and 
wonder, 
Which     soars    where     Expectation 
never  flew, 
Rending  the  veil  of    space  and  time 
asunder  ! 
One    ocean  feeds    the    clouds,  and 
streams,  and  dew; 
One   sun    illumines   heaven;     one  spirit 
vast 
With  life  and  love   makes  chaos  ever 

new, 
As  Athens   doth  the    world   with  thy 
delight  renew. 


Then    Rome   was,    and    from    thy    deep 
bosom  fairest, 
Like    a    wolf-cub    from    a    Cadmaean 
Maenad,1 
She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  tho'  thy 
dearest 
From  that   Elysian  food  was  yet  un- 
weaned; 
And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified; 
And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side, 
Saintly  Camillus   lived,  and  firm  Atilius 
died. 
But  when  tears    stained    thy  robe    of 
vestal  whiteness, 
And  gold    profaned    thy  Capitolian 
throne, 
Thou  didst  desert,  with  spirit- winged 
lightness, 
The  senate  of  the  tyrants:  they  sunk 
prone 
Slaves  of   one  tyrant :    Palatinus  sighed 
Faint  echoes  of  Ionian  song;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to 
disown. 


1  See  the  Bacchae  of  Euripides. 


From  what    Hyrcanian   glen    or    frozen 
hill, 
Or    piny    promontory   of    the    Arctic 
main, 
Or  utmost  islet  inaccessible, 

Didst    thou    lament    the    ruin    of    thy 
reign, 
Teaching  the  woods  and  waves,  and  des- 
ert rocks, 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn, 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stern, 
Of  that  sublimest  lore  which   man  had 
dared  unlearn? 
For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  wiz- 
ard flocks 
Of  the   Scald's  dreams,   nor    haunt 
the  Druid's  sleep. 
What    if    the    tears    rained    thro'    thy 
shattered  locks 
Were  quickly  dried?  for  thou  didst 
groan,  not  weep 
When  from  its  sea  of  death  to  kill   and 
burn, 
The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep, 
And  made  thy  world  an   undistinguish- 
able  heap. 


A  thousand  years  the  Earth  cried,  Where 
art  thou? 
And  then  the  shadow  of  thy  coming 
fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-cinctured  brow: 

And  many  a  warrior-peopled  citadel, 
Like  rocks  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  flat 
deep, 
Aiose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning    o'er    the    tempestuous 
sea 
Of    kings,    and    priests,    and    slaves,    in 
tower-crowned  majesty; 
That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep, 
And  burst   around   their   walls,   Like 
idle  foam, 
Whilst  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest 
deep 
Strange  melody  with   love   and   awe 
struck  dumb 
Dissonant  arms;  and  Art,  which  cannot 
die, 


POEMS    WRIT  TEX  IN   1820. 


54: 


With  divine  wand  traced  on  our 
earthly  home 

Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaven's  everlast- 
ing dome. 

x. 

Thou  huntress   swifter  than  the   Moon  ! 
thou  terror 
Of   the  world's   wolves!    thou  bearer 
of  the  quiver, 
Whose    sunlike    shafts    pierce    tempest- 
winged  Error, 
As  light   may  pierce   the   clouds  when   I 
they  dissever 
In  the  calm  regions  of  the  orient  day  ! 

Luther      caught      thy      wakening 

glance; 
Like  lightning,   from    his    leaden   \ 
lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the 
trance 
In  which,   as  in  a  tomb,   the  nations 
lay; 
And  England's  prophets  hailed  thee 
as  their  queen, 
In   songs    whose   music    cannot    pass   I 
away, 
Tho'    it     must    flow   for   ever:    not    j 
unseen 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 
Of  Milton  didst  thou   pass,   from  the 

sad  scene 
Beyond  whose  night  he  saw,  with   a 
dejected  mien. 


The  eager  hours  and  unreluctant  years 
As    on    a    dawn-illumined    mountain 
stood, 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and 
fears, 
Darkening  each  other  with  their  mul- 
titude, 
And   cried   aloud,    Liberty!    Indignation 
Answered  Pity  from  her  cave ; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave, 
And  Desolation  howled  to  the  destroyer, 
Save  ! 
When   like   heaven's   sun   girt   by  the 
exhalation 
Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst 
arise, 


Chasing    thy    foes    from    nation    unto 
nation 
Like  shadows:  as  if  day  had  cloven 
the  skies 
At  dreaming  midnight  o*er  the  western 
wave, 

Men  started,   staggering    with   a  glad 
surprise, 

Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamil- 
iar eyes. 

XII. 

Thou  heaven  of  earth  !  what  spells  could 
pall  thee  then, 
In  ominous  eclipse?  a  thousand  years 
Bred  from  the  slime  of  deep  oppression's 
den, 
Dyed  all   thy   liquid  light  with   blood 
and  tears, 
Till  thy  sweet  stars  could  weep  the  stain 
away; 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Round   France,   the   ghastly  vint- 
age, stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves,  and  Folly's 
mitred  brood  ! 
When  one,  like  them,  but  mightier  far 
than  they, 
The  Anarch  of  thine  own  bewildered 
powers 
Rose  :  armies  mingled  in  obscure  array, 
Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening 
the  sacred  bowers 
Of  serene  heaven.      He,  by  the  past  pur- 
sued, 
Rests  with  those  dead,  but  unforgotten 

hours, 
Whose    ghosts    scare   victor    kings    in 
their  ancestral  towers. 


England  yet  sleeps :  was  she  not   called 
of  old? 
Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrill- 
ing thunder 
Vesuvius  wakens  /Etna,  and  the  cold 
Snow-crags  by  its  reply  are  cloven  in 
sunder : 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  /Eolian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls,  and   leaps,   and   glares  in 
chorus : 


546 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


They  cry,  Be  dim;   ye  lamps  of  heaven 
suspended  o'er  us. 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold,    she 
need  but  smile 
And  they  dissolve;  but  Spain's  were 
links  of  steel, 
Till  bit  to  dust  by  virtue's  keenest  file. 
Twins  of  a  single  destiny  !  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us, 
In  the   dim  West;  impress  us  from   a 

seal. 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done  !     Time 
cannot  dare  conceal. 


Tomb  of  Arminius  !  render  up  thy  dead, 
Till,   like    a    standard   from    a  watch- 
tower's  staff, 
His  soul  may   stream   over   the    tyrant's 
head; 
Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph, 
Wild    Bacchanal    of     truth's    mysterious 
wine, 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee. 
Why  do  we  fear  or  hope  ?  thou  art  already 
free  ! 
And  thou,  lost  Paradise  of  this  divine 
And    glorious  world !   thou    flowery 

wilderness  ! 
Thou  island  of  eternity  !  thou  shrine 
Where    desolation     clothed    with 
loveliness, 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wert !     O  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  thy  heart;  re- 
press 
The  beasts  who  make  their  dens  thy 
sacred  palaces. 


Oh,  that  the   free  would  stamp   the   im- 
pious name 
Of  King  into    the    dust!   or  write    it 
there, 

So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page   of   fame 
Were  as   a  serpent's   path,  which   the 
light  air 

Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind! 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard : 
Lift  the  victory-flashing  sword, 

And   cut    the    snaky   knots    of   this    foul 
gordian  word, 


Which,  weak  itself  as  stubble,  yet  can 
bind 
Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm, 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  man- 
kind; 
The  sound  has  poison  in  it,  't  is  the 
sperm 
Of  what  makes  life  foul,  cankerous,  and 
abhorred : 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appointed 

term, 
To  set  thine  armed  heel  on  this  reluc- 
tant worm. 


Oh,  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds 
would  kindle 
Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this 
dim  world, 
That   the   pale   name   of    Priest    might 
shrink  and  dwindle 
Into  the    hell   from  which   it   first  was 
hurled, 
A    scoff    of    impious    pride    from    fiends 
impure; 
Till  human  thoughts  might  kneel 

alone 
Each  before  the  judgment-throne 
Of  its  own  aweless  soul,  or  of  the  power 
unknown  ! 
Oh,   that  the  words  which   make  the 
thoughts  obscure 
Prom  which   they  spring,    as   clouds 
of  glimmering  dew 
From  a  white  lake  blot  heaven's  blue 
portraiture, 
Were  stript  of  their  thin  masks  and 
various  hue 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendors  not 
their  own, 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to 
receive  its  due  ! 

XVII. 

He  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatso- 
ever 
Can   be   between   the   cradle   and    the 
grave 

Crowned  him  the   King    of    Life.     Oh, 
vain  endeavor  ! 


POEMS    WRITTEN   IN  1820. 


?47 


If  on  his  own  high  will  a  willing  slave,    '       To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn; 
He    has    enthroned  the  oppression   and  I  Then,   as  a  wild  swan,   when  sublimely 


the  oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need, 


winging 
Its  path    athwart    the    thunder-smoke 
of  dawn, 


And   power   in   thought  be    as    the    tree   '   Sinks  headlong    thro'   the    aerial   golden 


within  the  seed? 
Or  what  if  Art,  an  ardent   intercessor, 
Driving  on  fiery  wings   to  Nature's 
throne, 
Checks  the  great   mother   stooping   to 
caress  her, 
And  cries:  Give  me,  thy  child,   do- 
minion 
Over  all  height  and  depth?  if  Life    can 
breed 
New  wants,  and  wealth   from   those 

who  toil  and  groan 
Rend  of  thy  gifts  and  hers   a   thou-    \ 
sandfold  for  one 


Come  Thou,  but  lead  out   of  the  inmost   1 
cave 
Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morning-    j 


light 

On  the  heavy  sounding  plain, 
When    the    bolt    has    pierced    its 
brain; 
As  summer  clouds  dissolve,  unburdened 
of  their  rain; 
A-  a  far  taper  fades  with  fading  night, 
As   a    brief  insect    dies  with    dying 
day, 
My    song,    its    pinions    disarrayed    of 
might, 
Droopt;  o'er   it  closed    the    echoes 
far  away 
Of   the   great  voice  which   did   its   flight 
sustain, 
As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery 

way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their 
tempestuous  play.    . 


Beckons  the  Sun  from  the  Eoan  wave, 
Wisdom.      I  hear  the   pennons   of  her 
car 
Self-moving,    like     cloud     charioted     by 
flame; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not, 
Rulers  of  eternal  thought. 
To  judge,  with   solemn    truth,    life's   ill- 
apportioned  lot? 
Blind    Love,   and    equal    Justice,   and 
the  Fame 
Of     what    has    been,   the    Hope    of 
what  will  be? 


CANCELLED    PASSAGE    OF    THE 
ODE   TO    LIBERTY. 

Within    a    cavern    of    man's    trackless 
spirit 
Is  throned  an  Image,  so  intensely  fair 
That  the  adventurous  thoughts  that  wan- 
der near  it 
Worship,   and  as    they  kneel    tremble 
and  wear 
The   splendor  of  its    presence,   and    the 
light 
Penetrates  their  dreamlike  frame 


Oh  Liberty  !  if  such  could  be  thv  name 

Wert  thou  disjoined   from  these,  or   J   Till     they     become     charged     with     the 


they  from  thee : 
If  thine  or  theirs  were  treasures  to  be 

bought 
By  blood  or  tears,  have   not  the  wise 

and  free 
Wept  tears,  and  blood  like  tears? — The 

solemn  harmony 


Paused,  and    the    spirit    of  that    mighty   j 
singing  I 


strength  of  flame. 


TO 


I  FEAR  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden, 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burden  thine. 


548 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion. 

Thou  needest  not  fear  mine; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 

With  which  I  worship  thine. 


ARETHUSA. 


Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 

In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag, 
With  many  a  jag, 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 
She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 
With  her  rainbow  locks 

Streaming  among  the  streams;  — 
II er  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 

Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams : 
And  gliding  and  springing 
She  went,  ever  singing, 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep; 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 


Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks;  —  with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  River-god  were 
Seen  thro'  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

III. 

"Oh,  save  me!    Oh,  guide  me! 
And  hid  the  deep  hide  me, 


For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair  !  " 

The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream: — 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main 
Alpheus  rushed  behind,  — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind 

IV. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Powers 

Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 
Thro'  the  coral  woods 
Of  the  weltering  floods, 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones; 
Thro'  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 

Weave  a  network  of  colored  light; 
And  under  the  caves, 
Where  the  shadowy  waves 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night:  — 
Outspeeding  the  shark, 
And  the  sword-fish  dark, 

Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  thro'  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain  clifts 

They  past  to  their  Dorian  home. 


And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  meaning  foaskf 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill; 

At  noontide  they  flow 
Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  asphodel; 

Ami  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


549 


Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore;  — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 


SONG  OF  PROSERPINE, 

WHILE    GATHERING    FLOWERS     ON     THE 
PLAIN    OF    ENNA. 


Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth, 
Thou  from  whose  immortal  bosom, 

Gods,  and  men,  and  beasts  have  birth, 
Leaf  and  blade,  and  bud  and  blossom, 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


II. 


If  with  mists  of  evening  dew 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 
Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue, 

Fairest  children  of  the  hours, 
Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 
On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


HYMN   OF  APOLLO. 


The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I 
lie, 
Curtained  with  star-inwoven  tapestries,   | 
From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 
Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim   i 
eyes, — 
Waken  me  when  their  Mother,  the  gray 

Dawn, 
Tells    them   that   dreams    and    that    the 
moon  is  gone. 


Then    I    arise,    and    climbing    Heaven's 

bine   dome, 
I   walk   over   the    mountains   and   the 

waves, 
Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam; 


My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire; 

the  caves 
Are  filled  with  my  bright  presence,  ana 

the  air 
Leaves  the  green  earth   to  my  embraces 

bare. 


The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which 
I  kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears 
the  day; 
All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 

Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 
Good   minds  and  open  actions  take  new 

might, 
Until  diminisht  by  the  reign  of  night. 


I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the 

flowers 
With  their  ethereal  colors;  the  Moon's 

globe 
And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 
Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with 

a  robe; 
Whatever    lamps    on    Earth    or    Heaven 

may  shine, 
Are    portions    of    one    power,    which    is 

mine. 


I    stand    at    noon    upon    the    peak    of 

Heaven, 
Then  with    unwilling  steps   I  wander 

down 
Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even; 
For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and 

frown  : 
What   look  is   more  delightful  than  the 

smile 
With    which    I   soothe    them    from    th<? 

western  isle? 


I  am  the  eye  with  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine? 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse, 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine, 


55° 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


All  light  of  art  or  nature;  —  to  my  song, 
Victory  and    praise   in    their   own   right 
belong. 


HYMN   OF   PAN. 


From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 


Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 

And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  clay, 

Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 
And    the    Nymphs  of    the  woods  and 
waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 
And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow 
Were     silent    with     love,    as    you    now, 
Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  dsedal  Earth, 
And  of   Heaven, —  and  the  giant  wars, 
And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings, — 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menalus 
I     pursued    a    maiden     and     claspt     a 
reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus  ! 
It   breaks  in   our   bosom  and  then  we 
bleed : 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


THE   QUESTION. 


I  dreamed   that,  as  I  wandered  by  the 
way, 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to 
spring, 
And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mixt    with    a  sound    of    waters    mur- 
muring 
Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,   and   hardly  dared    to 
fling 
Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the 

stream, 
But    kist    it    and     then    fled,     as    thou 
mightest  in  dream. 


There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Daisies,   those  pearled  Arcturi  of   the 
earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets; 
Faint    oxslips;     tender    bluebells,    at 
whose  birth 
The    sod    scarce    heaved;    and    that  tall 
flower  that  wets  — 
Like  a  child,  half   in   tenderness  and 
mirth  — 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven's  collected 

tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice, 
it  hears. 


And    in    the    warm    hedge    grew    lush 
eglantine, 
Green    cowbind    and    the    moonlight- 
colored  May, 
And   cherry-blossoms,  and   white   cups, 
whose  wine 
Was  the  bright   dew,  yet  drained   not 
by  the  day ; 
And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wan- 
dering astray; 
And    flowers   azure,  black,    and    streakt 

with  gold, 
Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  iS: 


551 


And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 
There  grew   broad  flag-flowers,  purple 
prankt  with  white, 
And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge, 
And    floating    water-lilies,    broad    and 
bright, 
Which    lit    the    oak    that    overhung    the 
hedge 
With    moonlight    beams   of  their   own 
watery  light; 
And  bulrushes,   and  reeds  of  such  deep 

green 
As  soothed  the   dazzled   eye  with  sober 
sheen. 


Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers   I 
I  made  a  nosegay  bound  in  such  a  way   j 
That    the    same     hues,    which    in    their   | 
natural    bowers 
Were    mingled  or  opposed,    the    like   j 
array  _ 
Kept   these    imprisoned   children   of  the 
Hours 
Within    my    hand,  —  and    then,    elate   j 
and  gay, 
I  hastened    to  the   spot    whence   I    had   j 

come, 
That  I  might  there  present  it !  —  oh  !  to   | 
whom? 


THE    TWO    SPIRITS:    AN 
ALLEGORY. 

First  Spirit. 

O  THOU,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire  l 

Wouldst  float  above  the  earth,  beware  ! 
A  Shadow  tracks  thy  flight  of  fire  — 
Night  is  coming  ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air, 
And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there  — 
Night  is  coming  ! 

Second  Spirit. 

The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above, 
If  I  would  cross  the  shade  of  night, 


Within  my  heart  is  the  lamp  of  love, 
And  that  is  day  ! 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle 
light 
On    my    golden    plumes    where'er    they 
move; 
The    meteors    will    linger  round    my 
flight, 

And  make  night  day. 

First  Spirit. 

But  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 
Hail,  and  lightning,  and  stormy  rain; 
See,  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken  — 
Night  is  coming  ! 
The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 
Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken, 

The  clash  of  the  hail  sweeps  over  the 
plain  — 

Night  is  coming  ! 

Second  Spirit. 

I  see  the  light,  and  I  hear  the  sound; 
I  '11  sail  on  the   flood  of  the  tempest 
dark, 
With    the    calm   within    and    the    light 
around 

Which  makes  night  day: 
And  thou,  when  the  gloom  is  deep  and 
stark, 
Look     from    thy    dull    earth,     slumber- 
bound, 
My  moon-like  flight  thou  then  may'st 
mark 

On  high,  far  away. 


Some  say  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 
Mid  Alpine  mountains; 
And  that  the  languid  storm  pursuing 
That  winged  shape,  for  ever  flies 

Round   those  hoar  branches,   aye   re- 
newing 

Its  aery  fountains. 

Some  say  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear, 
And  the  death-dews  sleep  on  the  mo- 
rass, 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller, 
Which  make  night  day: 


552 


POEMS    WRITTEN  TV  1820. 


And  a  silver  shape   like  his  early  love 
doth  pass 
Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the   fragrant 
grass, 

He  finds  night  day. 


ODE  TO   NAPLES.1 

EPODE   I  a. 

I  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterred, 
And  heard  the    autumnal    leaves  like 
light  footfalls 
Of  spirits  passing  thro'  the  streets;    and 
heard 
The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice    at 
intervals 
Thrill  thro'  those  roofless  halls; 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 
The    listening    soul  in  my   suspended 
blood; 
I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her   deep  heart 
spoke  — 
I    felt,    but  heard  not: — thro'  white 
columns  glowed 
The  isle-sustaining  Ocean-flood, 
\  plane  of  light   between  two   Heavens 
of   azure : 
Around    me    gleamed    many  a  bright 
sepulchre 
Of  whose   pure  beauty,  Time,   as   if  his 

pleasure 
Were  to   spare    Death,  had  never  made 
erasure; 
But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 
As  in  the  sculptor's  thought;  and  there 
The  wreaths  of  stony  myrtle,   ivy,  and 
pine, 
Like     winter     leaves     o'ergrown     by 

moulded  snow, 
Seemed  only  not  to  move  and  grow 
Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 

1  The  Author  has  connected  many  recollections 
of  his  visit  to  Pompeii  and  Baiae  with  the  enthu- 
siasm excited  by  the  intelligence  of  the  procla- 
mation of  a  Constitutional  Government  at  Na- 
ples This  has  given  a  tinge  of  picturesque  and 
descriptive  imagery  to  the  introductory  Epodes 
which  depicture  these  scenes,  and  some  of  the 
majestic  feelings  permanently  connected  with  the 
scene  of  this  animating  event. 

2  Pompeii. 


Weighed   on   their  life;    even   as  the 

Power  divine 
Which  then  lulled  all  things,  brooded 

upon  mine. 

EPODE  II  a. 

Then  gentle  winds  arose 
With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of    wild   yEolian    sound  and  mountain- 
odor  keen; 
And  where  the  Baian  ocean 
Welters  with  airlike  motion, 
Within,    above,    around    its    bowers    of 
starry  green, 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple 
caves 
Even   as   the  ever-stormless  atmos- 
phere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm, 
It  bore  me    like    an  Angel,   o'er  the 
waves 
Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of 
dewy  air 
No  storm  can  overwhelm; 
I  sailed,  where  ever  flows 
Under  the  calm  Serene 
A  spirit  of   deep  emotion 
From  the  unknown  graves 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody.3 
Shadowy  Aornos  darkened  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  ether;    heaven  stript  bare 
Its  depths  over  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow; 
From  that  Typhsean  mount,  Inarime 
There   streamed    a   sunlit   vapor,    like 
the  standard 
Of  some  ethereal  host; 
Whilst  from  all  the  coast, 
Louder  and  louder,   gathering  round, 
there  wandered 
Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 
Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate  — 
They  seize   me- — I  must   speak  them  — 
be  they  fate  ! 

STROPHE    a    I. 

Naples  !   thou  Heart  of  men   which  ever 
pantest 
Naked,    beneath    the    lidless    eye    oi 
heaven  ! 

3  Homer  and  Vergil. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  TV   1820. 


553 


Elysian  City  which  to  calm  enchantest 
The  mutinous  air  and  sea:    they  round 
thee,  even 
As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven  ! 
Metropolis  of  a  ruined  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and   yet  but  half 
regained  ! 
Bright  Altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice, 
Which   armed   Victory   offers    up    un- 
stained 
To  Love,  the  flower-enchained! 
Thou  which   wert   once,  and   then  didst 

cease  to  be, 
Now  art,  and   henceforth  ever  shalt  be, 
free, 
If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can 
avail, 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

STROPHE    /S    2. 

Thou  youngest  giant  birth 

Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,    clothed  in   armor  of   impene- 
trable scale  ! 

Last  of  the  Intercessors  ! 

Who  'gainst  the   Crowned  Trans- 
gressors 
Pleadest  before  God's   love  !     Arrayed 
in  Wisdom's  mail, 

Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth 

Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail, 
Tho'     from     their  hundred     gates     the 
leagued  Oppressors, 

With  hurried  legions  move  ! 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 


ANTISTROPHE    a. 

What    tho'     Cimmerian    Anarchs    dare 
blaspheme 
Freedom  and  thee?  thy   shield  is  as  a 
mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with 
fierce  gleam 
To  turn   his  hungry  sword   upon   the 
wearer; 
A  new  Action's  error 
Shall    theirs    have    been  —  devoured  by 
their  own  hounds. 
Be  thou  like  the  imperial  Basilisk 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparent  wounds  ! 


Gaze  on  oppression,  till  at  that  dread 

risk 
Aghast  she  pass  from  the  Earth's  disk  : 
Fear  not,  but  gaze  —  for  freemen  might- 
ier grow, 
And  slaves  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their 
foe; 
If  Hope  and   Truth   and  Justice  may 

avail, 
Thou  shalt  be  great.  —  All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE    (i   2. 

From  Freedom's  form  divine, 
From  Nature's  inmost  shrine, 
Strip   every  impious   gawd,  rend  Error 
veil  by  veil : 
O'er  Ruin  desolate, 
O'er  Falsehood's  fallen  state, 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed;    be   the  De- 
stroyer pale  ! 
And  equal  laws  be  thine, 
And  winged  words  let  sail, 
Freighted    with    truth    even    from    the 
throne  of  God : 
That  wealth,  surviving  fate, 
Be  thine.  —  All  hail ! 


ANTISTROPHE    a   y. 

Didst   thou    not    start    to    hear    Spain's 
thrilling  piean 
From  land  to  land  re-echoed  solemnly, 
Till   silence   became    music?     Prom    the 
^aean1 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine  !     The  Sea 
Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  Venice 
laughs 
In  light   and   music;   widowed  Genoa 
wan 
By  moonlight  spells  ancestral  epitaphs, 
Murmuring,     where     is     Doria?     fair 
Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran 
The    viper's  2  palsying   venom,    lifts  her 

heel 
To  bruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the 
seal 


1  /E;ca,  the  island  of  Circe. 

2  The    viper  was  the  armorial  device  of  the 
Visconti,  tyrants  of  Milan. 


554 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


(If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  can 

avail) 
Art  thou  of  all  these  hopes.  —  0  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE    /S   y. 

Florence  !   beneath  the  sun, 
Of  cities  fairest  one, 
Blushes  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's 
expectation : 
From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 
Rome  tears  the  priestly  cope, 
As  ruling  once   by  power,   so   now  by 
admiration, 
As  athlete  stript  to  run 
From  a  remoter  station 
For  the    high  prize   lost   on   Philippi's 
shore :  — 
As  then  Hope,  Truth,  and   Justice  did 

avail, 
So  now  may  Fraud  and  Wrong  !     O 
hail! 

EPODE    I.    (i. 

Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  Earth-born 
Forms 
Arrayed  against  the  ever-living  Gods? 
The  crash   and  darkness   of  a  thousand 
storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes 
Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds? 
See    ye    the    banners    blazoned    to    the 
day, 
Inwrought  with  emblems  of  barbaric 
pride  ? 
Dissonant  threats  kills  Silence  far  away, 
The  serene   Heaven  which  wraps  our 
Eden  wide 
With  iron  light  is  dyed, 
The    Anarchs  of    the    North    lead  forth 
their  legions 
Like    Chaos  o'er   creation,  uncreat- 
ing; 
A    hundred    tribes   nourisht    on    strange 

religions 
And  lawless  slaveries,  —  down  the  aerial 
regions 
Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating, 
Famisht    wolves     that     bide     no 
waiting, 
Blotting  the    glowing    footsteps    of    old 
glory, 


Trampling  our  columned  cities  into  dust, 
Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty's  corse   to   sickness  sati- 
ating — 
They  come  !     The  fields  they  tread  look 

black  and  hoary 
With    fire — from    their    red    feet    the 
streams  run  gory  ! 


EPODE  II.    (5. 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love  ! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move 
All  things  which    live    and    are,   within 
the  Italian  shore; 
Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it, 
Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  sur- 
round it; 
Wrho    sittest    in   thy   star,   o'er    Ocean's 

western  floor, 
Spirit  of  beauty  !  at  whose  soft  command 
The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil 
its  foison 
From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill; 
O  bid  those   beams  be  each   a  blinding 
brand 
Of  lightning !    bid   those    showers  be 
dews  of  poison  ! 
Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill ! 
Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above, 
Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it, 
Be  their  tomb  who  planned 
To  make  it  ours  and  thine  ! 
Or,  with  thine  harmonizing  ardors  fill 
And   raise    thy  sons,   as   o'er    the   prone 

horizon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with 

fire  — 
Be   man's   high  hope  and  unextinct  de- 
sire, 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine  ! 
Then  clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes 
from  leopards, 
And  frowns  and  fears  from  Thee, 
Would  not  more  swiftly  flee 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausonian 
shepherds.  — 
Whatever,  Spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest,  Oh,  let 

be 
This  city  of  our  worship  ever  free  ! 


POEMS    WRITThN  IN  1820. 


555 


AUTUMN:    A    DIRGE. 

And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 

1. 

That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy? 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind 

11. 

is  wailing, 

The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale 

Thou  chosen  sister  of  the  spirit, 

flowers  are  dying, 

That    gazes    on    thee    till    in    thee    it 

And  the  year 

pities  .   .   . 

On  the  earth  her  deathbed,  in  a  shroud 

of  leaves  dead, 

Is  lying. 

DEATH. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

' 

In  your  saddest  array; 

Death  is  here  and  death  is  there, 

Follow  the  bier 

Death  is  busy  everywhere, 

Of  the  dead  cold  year, 

All  around,  within,  beneath, 

And    like   dim    shadows  watch  by  her 

Above  is  death  —  and  we  are  death. 

sepulchre. 

11. 

11. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm 

Death  has  set  his  mark  and  seal 

is  crawling, 

On  all  we  are  and  all  we  feel, 

The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is 

On  all  we  know  and  all  we  fear, 

knelling 

For  the  year; 

The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the 

III. 

lizards  each  gone 

To  his  dwelling; 

First  our  pleasures  die  —  and  then 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

Our    hopes,   and  then    our    fears  —  and 

Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray; 

when 

Let  your  light  sisters  play  — 

These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due, 

Ye,  follow  the  bier 

Dust  claims  dust — and  we  die  too. 

Of  the  dead  cold  year, 

And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on 

IV. 

tear. 

All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish, 

Like  ourselves  must  fade  and  perish, 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot  — 

THE   WANING    MOON. 

And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale, 

Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 

Who  totters  forth,  wrapt  in  a  gauzy  veil, 

Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 

LIBERTY. 

And  feeble  wanderings  of  her  fading  brain, 

The  moon  rose  up  in  the  murky  east, 

1. 

A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 

The  fiery  mountains  answer  each  other; 

TO   THE    MOON. 

Their    thunderings    are    echoed    from 

zone  to  zone; 

1. 

The  tempestuous  oceans  awake  one  an- 

Art thou  pale  for  weariness 

other, 

Of  climbing   heaven  and  gazing  on  the 

And   the   ice-rocks  are  shaken  round 

earth, 

Winter's  throne, 

Wandering  companionless 

When   the   clarion  of  the   Typhoon 

A.mong  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth, 

is  blown. 

556 


POEMS    WRITTEN  I IV  1820. 


From  a  single  cloud  the  lightning  flashes, 
Whilst  a  thousand  isles  are  illumined 
around, 
Earthquake  is  trampling  one  city  to  ashes, 
A  hundred  are  shuddering  and  totter- 
ing;   the  sound 
Is  bellowing  underground. 


But  keener  thy  gaze  than  the  lightning's 
glare, 
And   swifter  thy  step  than  the   earth- 
quake's tramp; 
Thou  deafenest   the   rage  of  the   ocean; 
thy  stare 
Makes  blind  the  volcanoes;    the  sun's 
bright  lamp 
To  thine  is  a  fen-fire  damp. 


From  billow  and   mountain  and  exhala- 
tion 
The  sunlight  is  darted  thro'  vapor  and 
blast; 
From    spirit    to    spirit,    from    nation    to 
nation, 
From  city  to  hamlet    thy   dawning  is 
cast,  — 
And  tyrants  and  slaves  are  like  shadows 
of  night 
In  the  van  of  the  morning  light. 

SUMMER   AND   WINTER. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon, 
Towards  the  end  of    the  sunny  month  of 

June, 
When    the    north   wind    congregates    in 

crowds 
The     floating    mountains    of     the    silver 

clouds 
From  the  horizon  —  and  the  stainless  sky 
Opens  beyond  them  like  eternity. 
All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun;    the 

weeds, 
The   river,   and   the   cornfields,    and  the 

reeds: 
The  willow   leaves  that  glanced   in    the 

light  breeze, 
And  the  firm   foliage  of  the  larger  trees. 


It  was  a  winter  such  as  when  birds  die 
In  the  deep  forests;    and  the  fishes  lie 
Stiffened   in   the   translucent   ice,  which 

makes 
Even  the   mud   and   slime  of  the  warm 

lakes 
A  wrinkled  clod  as  hard  as  brick;    and 

when, 
Among  their  children,  comfortable  men 
Gather   about   great   fires,   and  yet  feel 

cold  : 
Alas  then  for  the  homeless  beggar  old  ! 

THE   TOWER   OF   FAMINE. 

Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city, 

Which  was  the   cradle,    and  is  now  the 

grave 
Of  an  extinguish!  people;    so  that  pity 

Weeps  o'er  the  shipwrecks  of  oblivion's 
wave, 

There  stands  the  Tower  of  Famine.  It 
is  built 

Upon  some  prison  homes,  whose  dwell- 
ers rave 

For  bread,   and  gold,  and  blood:   pain, 

linkt  to  guilt, 
Agitates  the  light  flame  of  their  hours, 
Until  its  vital  oil  is  spent  or  spilt; 

There  stands  the  pile,  a  tower  amid  the 
towers 

And  sacred  domes;  each  marble-ribbed 
roof, 

The  brazen-gated  temples,  and  the  bow- 
ers 

Of  solitary  wealth;    the  tempest-proof 
Pavilions  of  the  dark  Italian  air, 
Are     by     its     presence     dimmed  —  they 
stand  aloof, 

And   are  withdrawn  —  so  that   the  world 

is  bare, 
As  if    a  spectre  wrapt  in  shapeless  terror 
Amid  a  company  of   ladies  fair 

Should  glide  and  glow,  till  it   became  a 

mirror 
Of  all  their   beauty,  and   their   hair   and 

hue, 


TO  EMS    WRITTEN  IN    1S20. 


557 


The  life  of  their  sweet  eyes,  with  all  its 

error, 
Should  be   absorbed,  till   they  to  marble 

grew. 

AN   ALLEGORY. 


A  portal  as  of  shadowy  adamant 

Stands  yawning  on  the  highway  of  the 

life 
Which  we  all   tread,  a  cavern  huge  and 

gaunt ; 
Around  it  rages  an  unceasing  strife 
Of  shadows,  like  the  restless  clouds  that 

haunt 
The  gap  of  some   cleft   mountain,   lifted 

high 
Into  the  whirlwinds  of   the  upper  sky. 


n. 


And  many  pass  it  by  with  careless  tread, 

Not  knowing  that  a  shadowy   .   .    . 
Tracks  every  traveller  even  to  where  the 
dead 
Wait   peacefully  for   their  companion 
new ; 
But  others,  by  more  curious  humor  led 
Pause    to   examine,  —  these    are  very 
few, 
And   they    learn    little   there,   except  to 

know 
That    shadows    follow    them    where'er 
they  go. 


THE   WORLD'S   WANDERERS. 


Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now? 


Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of   night  or  day 

Seekest  thou  repose  now? 


Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow? 


SONNET. 

Ye  hasten  to  the  grave  !      What  seek  ye 

there, 
Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 
Of    the    idle    brain,   which  the   world's 

livery  wear  ? 
Oh  thou    quick    heart    which    pantest   to 

possess 
All  that  pale  Expectation  feigneth  fair  ! 
Thou  vainly  curious   mind  which  would- 

est  guess 
Whence   thou  didst  come,   and  whither 

thou  must  go, 
And  all  that  never  yet  was  known  would 

know  — 
Oh,  whither  hasten  ye,  that  thus  ye  press, 
With    such   swift    feet    life's  green    and 

pleasant  path, 
Seeking,  alike  from   happiness  and  woe, 
A  refuge  in  the  cavern  of  gray  death? 
O  heart,    and  mind,  and  thoughts  !   what 

thing  do  you 
Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below? 

LINES   TO   A   REVIEWER. 

Alas,  good   friend,  what  profit  can  you 

see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me? 
There  is    no  sport  in    hate  when   all  the 

rage 
Is  on    one    side;    in  vain   would   you  as- 
suage 
Your  frowns  upon  an  unresisting  smile, 
In  which    not    even    contempt    lurks   to 

beguile 
Your  heart,  by   some    faint   sympathy  of 

hate. 
Oh!   conquer  what  you  cannot  satiate; 
For  to  your  passion  I  am  far  more  coy 
Than  ever  yet  was  coldest  maid  or  boy 
In  winter  noon.      Of  your  antipathy, 
If   I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me. 


55S 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1820. 


FRAGMENT  OF   A   SATIRE   ON 
SATIRE. 

If  gibbets,  axes,  confiscations,  chains, 
And  racks  of  subtle  torture,  if  the  pains 
Of  shame,  of  fiery    Hell's   tempestuous 

wave, 
Seen   thro'  the  caverns  of   the  shadowy 

grave, 
Hurling  the  damned  into  the  murky  air 
While  the  meek  blest  sit  smiling;   if  De- 
spair 
And  Hate,  the   rapid  bloodhounds  with 

which  Terror 
Hunts    thro'   the    world     the    homeless 

steps  of  Error, 
Are  the  true  secrets  of  the  commonweal 
To  make  men  wise  and  just;    .   .   . 
And  not   the  sophisms   of    revenge  and 

fear, 
Bloodier  than  is  revenge   .   .   . 
Then   send   the  priests   to   every  hearth 

and  home 
To  preach  the  burning  wrath  which  is  to 

come, 
In  words  like  flakes  of  sulphur,  such  as 

thaw 
The  frozen  tears  .   .   . 
If  Satire's  scourge  could  wake  the  slum- 
bering hounds 
Of    Conscience,     or    erase    the    deeper 

wounds, 
The  leprous  scars  of  callous  infamy; 
If  it  could  make  the  present  not  to  be, 
Or  charm   the   dark   past   never   to  have 

been, 
Or  turn  regret  to   hope;    who  that   has 

seen 
What    Southey   is   and   was,    would   not 

exclaim, 
Lash  on  !  be    the    keen  verse 

dipt  in  flame; 
Follow  his    flight    with    winged    words, 

and  urge 
The  strokes  of  the  inexorable  scourge 
Until  the  heart  be  naked,  till  his  soul 
See  the  contagion's  spots  foul; 

And  from  the  mirror  of  Truth's  sunlike 

shield, 
From  which  his  Parthian  arrow   .    .   . 
Flash   on   his   sight  the  spectres  o'   the 

past, 


Until  his  mind's  eye  paint  thereon  — 
Let  scorn  like  yawn  below, 

And    rain    on    him    like    flakes    of   fiery 

snow. 
This  cannot  be,  it  ought  not,  evil  still  — 
Suffering  makes  suffering,  ill  must  follow 

ill. 
Rough  words  beget  sad  thoughts, 

and,  beside, 
Men  take  a  sullen  and  a  stupid  pride 
In  being  all  they  hate  in  others'  shame, 
By  a  perverse  antipathy  of  fame. 
'T  is  not  worth  while  to  prove,  as  I  could, 

how 
From  the  sweet  fountains  of  our  Nature 

flow 
These  bitter  waters;    I  will  only  say, 
I  If  any  friend  would   take   Southey  some 

day, 
j  And  tell  him,  in  a  country  walk  alone, 
j  Softening  harsh  words  with   friendship's 

gentle  tone, 
How  incorrect  his  public  conduct  is, 
And  what  men   think   of  it,  't  were  not 

amiss. 
Far  better  than  to  make  innocent  ink  — 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


Good-night!  ah!  no;   the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite; 

Let  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 


How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 
Though    thy    sweet    wishes     wing    its 
flight? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood  — 
Then  it  will  be  — good  night. 


To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good;  because,  my  love, 
They  nevtir  .say  good-night. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


559 


BUONA   NOTTE. 


"Buona  notte,  buona  notte  !  " —  Come 
mai 

La  notte  sara  buona  senza  te? 
Non  dirmi  buona  notte,  —  che  tu  sai, 

La  notte  sa  star  buona  da  per  se. 


Solinga,  scura,  cupa,  senza  speme, 
La  notte  quando  Lilla  m'abbandona; 

Pei  cuori  chi  si  batton  insieme 

Ogni  notte,  senza  dirla,  sara  buona. 


Come  male  buona  notte  si  suona 
Con  sospiri  e  parole  interrotte  !  — 

II  modo  di  aver  la  notte  buona 
E  mai  non  di  dir  la  buona  notte. 


ORPHEUS. 

A.     Not  far  from  hence.     From  yon- 
der pointed  hill, 
Crowned  with  a  ring  of  oaks,  you   may 

behold 
A   dark    and   barren    field,  thro'    which 

there  flows, 
Sluggish    and   black,  a   deep  but  narrow 

stream, 
Which  the   wind    ripples   not,    and   the 

fair  moon 
Gazes  in  vain,  and  finds  no  mirror  there. 
Follow  the  herbless  banks  of  that  strange 

brook 
Until  you  pause  beside  a  darksome  pond, 
The  fountain  of  this  rivulet,  whose  gush 
Cannot  be  seen,  hid  by  a  rayless  night 
That  lives  beneath  the  overhanging  rock 
That  shades  the  pool  —  an  endless  spring 

of  gloom, 
Upon    whose    edge    hovers    the    tender 

light, 
Trembling  to  mingle  with  its  paramour, — 
But,  as   Syrinx    fled    Pan,   so   night   flies 

day, 
Or,  with  most  sullen  and  regardless  hate, 
Refuses  stern  her  heaven-born  embrace. 


On  one  side  of  this  jagged  and  shape- 
less hill 
There  is  a  cave,  from  which  there  eddies 

up 
A  pale  mist,  like  aerial  gossamer, 
Whose  breath   destroys  all  life  —  awhile 

it  veils 
The  rock  —  then,  scattered  by  the  wind, 

it  flies 
Along  the  stream,  or  lingers  on  the  clefts, 
Killing  the   sleepy  worms,  if  aught  bide 

there. 
Upon    the    beetling    edge  of    that    dark 

rock 
There  stands  a  group  of  cypresses;    not 

such 
As,  with   a  graceful    spire    and    stirring 

life, 
Pierce    the   pure   heaven  of   your   native 

vale, 
Whose    branches  the   air   plays  among, 

but  not 
Disturbs,    fearing   to   spoil   their  solemn 

grace; 
But  blasted  and  all  wearily  they  stand, 
One    to    another    clinging;     their    weak 

boughs 
Sigh  as  the  wind  buffets  them,  and  they 

shake 
Beneath    its    blasts  —  a    weatherbeaten 

crew  ! 
Chorus.        What    wondrous    sound    is 

that,  mournful  and  faint, 
But   more  melodious  than   the   murmur- 
ing wind 
Which   thro'    the   columns   of    a   temple 

glides? 
A.       It  is  the  wandering  voice  of  Or- 
pheus' lyre, 
Borne  by  the  winds,  who  sigh  that  their 

rude  king 
Hurries  them  fast  from  these  air-feeding 

notes; 
But  in  their  speed   they  bear  along  with 

them 
The  waning  sound,  scattering  it  like  dew 
Upon  the  startled  sense. 

Chorus.  Does  he  still  sing? 

Methought  he  rashly  cast  away  his  harp 
When  he  had  lost  Eurydice. 

A.  Ah  nol 

Awhile   he   paused.      As   a  poor  hunted 

stag 


;6o 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


A  moment  shudders  on  the  fearful  brink 
Of    a  swift  stream  —  the   cruel    hounds 

press  on 
With  deafening  yell,  the  arrows  glance 

and  wound,  — 
He  plunges  in:   so  Orpheus,  seized  and 

torn 
By  the  sharp  fangs  of  an  insatiate  grief, 
Moenad-like  waved  his  lyre  in  the  bright 

air, 
And  wildly  shriekt,  "Where  she   is,   it 

is  dark  !  " 
And  then  he  struck  from  forth  the  strings 

a  sound 
Of  deep  and  fearful  melody.     Alas  ! 
In  times  long  past,  when  fair  Eurydice 
With  her  bright  eyes  sat  listening  by  his 

side, 
He    gently   sang   of  high  and  heavenly 

themes. 
As  in  a  brook,  fretted  with  little  waves, 
By  the  light  airs  of  spring  —  each  riplet 

makes 
A  many-sided  mirror  for  the  sun, 
While    it    flows    musically    thro'    green 

banks, 
Ceaseless  and  pauseless,  ever  clear  and 

fresh, 
So  flowed  his  song,  reflecting  the  deep 

joy, 
And  tender  love  that  fed  those  sweetest 

notes, 
The  heavenly  offspring  of  ambrosial  food. 
But  that  is  past.      Returning    from  drear 

Hell, 
He  chose  a  lonely  seat  of  unhewn  stone, 
Blackened    with    lichens,    on  a   herbless 

plain. 
Then    from    the    deep    and    overflowing 

spring 
Of  his  eternal  ever-moving  grief 
There  rose  to    Heaven  a  sound  of  angry 

song. 
T  is  as  a  mighty  cataract  that  parts 
Two  sister  rocks   with  waters  swift  and 

strong, 
And  casts  itself   with  horrid  roar  and  din 
Adown  a  steep;    from  a  perennial  source 
It  ever   flows   and   falls,   and  breaks  the 

air 
With  loud   and   fierce,  but   most   harmo- 
nious roar, 
And  as  it  falls  casts  up  a  vaporous  spray 


Which   the   sun  clothes  in   hues   of   Iris 

light. 
Thus  the  tempestuous  torrent  of  his  grief 
Is  clothed  in  sweetest  sound  and  varying 

words 
Of  poesy.     Unlike  all  human  works, 
It     never     slackens,     and    thro'     every 

change 
Wisdom  and  beauty  and  the  power  divine 
Of  mighty  poesy  together  dwell, 
Mingling  in   sweet  accord.     As   I   have 

seen 
A  fierce  south  blast  tear  thro'  the  dark- 
ened sky, 
Driving  along  a  rack  of  winged  clouds, 
Which  may  not  pause,  but  ever  hurry  on, 
As  their  wild  shepherd  wills  them,  while 

the  stars, 
Twinkling  and  dim,  peep  from  between 

the  plumes. 
Anon  the  sky  is  cleared,   and  the  high 

dome 
Of     serene    Heaven,    starred    with    fiery 

flowers, 
Shuts  in   the    shaken   earth;  or  the  still 

moon 
Swiftly,  yet  gracefully,  begins  her  walk, 
Rising  all  bright  behind  the  eastern  hills. 
I  talk  of  moon,  and  wind,  and  stars,  and 

not 
Of  song;    but  would  I  echo  his  high  song, 
Nature  must  lend  me  words   ne'er  used 

before, 
Or    I    must     borrow    from     her     perfect 

works, 
To  picture  forth  his  perfect  attributes. 
He  does  no  longer  sit  upon  his  throne 
Of  rock  upon  a  desert  herbless  plain, 
For  the  evergreen  and  knotted  ilexes, 
And    cypresses    that   seldom   wave   their 

boughs, 
And  sea-green  olives  with   their   grateful 

fruit, 
And   elms    dragging    along   the    twisted 

vines, 
Which  drop  their  berries  as  they  follow 

fast, 
And  blackthorn  bushes  with    their  infant 

race 
Of  blushing    rose    blooms;     beeches,   to 

lovers  dear, 
And   weeping-willow  trees;    all  swift  or 

slow. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1S20. 


561 


As   their    huge   boughs   or   lighter   dress       Which  the  same  hand  will   gather  —  the 


permit, 


same  clime 


Have   circled  in   his   throne,    and   Earth       Shake  with  decay.     This   fair  day  smile; 


herself 

Has    sent    from    her    maternal   breast    a 
growth 


to  see 
All  those  who  love  —  and  who  e'er  loved 
like  thee, 


Of    starlike  flowers   and   herbs   of    odor       Fiordispina?     Scarcely  Cosimo, 


sweet, 
To  pave  the  temple  that  his  poesy 


Within   whose    bosom   and   whose  brain 
now  glow- 


Has   framed,   while    near    his   feet    grim      The  ardors  of  a  vision  which  obscure 


lions  couch, 


The  very  idol  of  its  portraiture. 


And  kids,  fearless  from  love,  creep  near       He  faints  dissolved  into  a  sea  of  love: 


his  lair. 


But  thou  art  as  a  planet  sphered  above; 


Even  the   blind  worm   seems  to  feel  the       But    thou    art    Love    itself  —  ruling  the 


>und. 


The  birds  are  silent,  hanging  down  their       Of  his  subjected  spirit:   such  emotion 


head; 


Must  end  in  sin  and  sorrow,  if  sweet  May 


Percht    on    the   lowest   branches  of  the   |    Had  not  brought  forth  this  morn  —  your 

trees;  wedding-day. 

Not  even  the  nightingale  intrudes  a  note    : 

In  rivalry,  but  all  entranced  she  listens.     I    Lie  there;  sleep  awhile  in  your  own  dew 

Ye  faint-eyed  children  of  the 

Hours," 
Fiordispina  said,  and  threw  the  flowers 
Which  she  had  from  the  breathing  — 

A  table  near  of  polisht  porphyry 


FIORDISPINA. 

The  season  was  the   childhood  of  sweet 
June, 


Whose  sunny  hours   from   morning  until      They   seemed  to  wear  a  beauty  from  the 

noon  eye 

Went  creeping  thro1    the  day  with  silent    1   That  lookt  on  them  —  a  fragrance   from 


feet, 


the  touch 


Each  with  its  load  of  pleasure,  slow  yet       W'hose  warmth 

sweet : 
Like  the  long  years  of  blest  Eternity 
Never  to  be  developt.     Joy  to  the*, 
Fiordispina  and  thy  Cosimo, 


checkt  their  life; 
a  light  such 
As   sleepers   wear,    lulled    by    the   voice 
they  lov<  , 

which  did  reprove 


For  thou  the  wonders  of  the  depth  canst    !   The  childish  pity  that  she  felt  for  them 


And  a 


remorse  that  from   their 


know 

Of   this  unfathomable  flood  of  hours,  stem 

Sparkling  beneath  the  heaven  which  em-  |   She  had  divided  such  fair  shapes 

bowers  —  made 

A  feeling  in  the  which  was  a  shade 

They   were    two    cousins,  almost    like  to  Of  gentle   beauty  on  the    flowers;    there 

twins,  hay 

Except  that  from  the  catalogue  of  sins  All    gems    that    make    the    earth  s    dark 


Nature    had    rased    their     love  —  which 

could  not  be 
But  by  dissevering  their  nativity. 


bosom  gay 
rods    of    myrtle-buds    and    lemon- 
blooms, 


And    so    they    grew    together  'like    two   j   And   that    leaf    tinted   lightly   which   as- 

flowers  sumes 

Upon  one   stem,  which    the  same   beams      The  livery  of  unremembered  snow 

and  showers 
Lull  or  awaken  in  their  purple  prime, 


Violets  whose  eyes  have  drunk  — 


^2 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  1820. 


Fiordispina  and  her  nurse  are  now 
Upon  the  steps  of  the  high  portico; 
Under  the  withered  arm  of  Media 
She  flings  her  glowing  arm 


step  by  step  and  stair  by  stair, 
That  withered  woman,   gray  and   white 

and  brown  — 
More  like  a  trunk  by  lichens  overgrown 
Than   anything  which   once  could  have 

been  human. 
And  ever  as  she  goes  the  palsied  woman 


"  How  slow  and  painfully  you  seem  to 

walk, 
Poor     Media !    you    tire    yourself    with 

talk." 

"And  well  it  may, 
Fiordispina,  dearest,  well-a-day  ! 
You  are  hastening  to  a  marriage-bed; 
I  to   the  grave!"  —  "And   if    my   love 

were  dead, 
Unless  my  heart  deceives  me,  I  would  lie 
Beside  him  in  my  shroud  as  willingly 
As    now    in    the    gay    night-dress    Lilla 

wrought." 
"  Fie,    child  !       Let    that    unseasonable 

thought 
Not    be    remembered   until  it  snows  in 

June; 
Such  fancies  are  a  music  out  of  tune 
With  the  sweet   dance    your    heart  must 

keep  to-night. 
What !   would  you   take   all    beauty  and 

delight 
Back  to  the    Paradise    from  which  you 

sprung, 
And  leave  to  grosser  mortals?  — 
And   say,    sweet    lamb,    would    you    not 

learn  the  sweet 
And     subtle    mystery    by    which     spirits 

meet? 
Who  knows  whether   the  loving  game  is 

played, 
When,    once    of    mortal    [vesture]    dis- 
arrayed, 
The    naked    soul    goes   wandering    here 

and  there 
Thro'  the  wide  deserts  of  Elysian  air? 
The  violet  dies  not  till  it  " 


TIME   LONG   PAST. 


Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead 

Is  Time  long  past. 
A  tone  which  is  now  forever  fled, 
A  hope  which  is  now  forever  past, 
A  love  so  sweet  it  could  not  last, 
Was  Time  long  past. 


II. 

There  were  sweet  dreams  in  the  night 

Of  Time  long  past: 
And,  was  it  sadness  or  delight, 
Each  day  a  shadow  onward  cast 
Which  made  us  wish  it  yet  might  last  - 
That  Time  long  past. 


III. 

There  is  regret,  almost  remorse, 

For  Time  long  past. 
'T  is  like  a  child's  beloved  corse 
A  father  watches,  till  at  last 
Beauty  is  like  remembrance,  cast 

From  Time  long  past. 


FRAGMENT:     THE    DESERTS   OF 
SLEEP. 

I  WENT  into  the  deserts  of  dim  sleep  — 
That   world,  which    like   an   unknown 

wilderness, 
Bounds   this  with   its   recesses  wide   and 

deep. 


FRAGMENT:    CONSEQUENCE. 

The  viewless  and  invisible  Consequence 
Watches  thy  goings-out,  and  comings-in, 
And   .    .    .   hovers  o'er  thy  guilty  sleep, 
Unveiling     every    new-born     deed,    and 

thoughts 
More  ghastly  than  those  deeds. 


NOTE    ON  POEMS   OF  1S20. 


5^3 


FRAGMENT:    A   FACE. 

His  face  was  like  a  snake's  —  wrinkled 

and  loose 
And  withered. 

FRAGMENT:    WEARINESS. 

My  head  is  heavy,  my  limbs  are  weary, 
And  it  is  not  life  that  makes  me  move. 

FRAGMENT:    HOPE,    FEAR,    AND 
DOUBT. 

Such    hope,   as   is   the   sick    despair   of 

good, 
Such  fear,  as  is  the  certainty  of  ill, 
Such  doubt,  as  is  pale  Expectation's  food 
Turned  while  she  tastes  to  poison,  when 

the  will 
Is  powerless,  and  the  spirit  .    .  . 

FRAGMENT;  "ALAS!  THIS  IS 
NOT  WHAT  I  THOUGHT  LIFE 
WAS."1 

Alas  !    this  is  not  what   I  thought   life 

was. 
I  knew  that  there  were  crimes  and  evil 

men, 
Misery  and  hate;    nor  did  I  hope  to  pass 
Untoucht  by  suffering,  thro'  the  rugged 

glen.' 
In  mine  own  heart  I  saw  as  in  a  glass 
The  hearts  of  others  And  when 

I  went  among  my  kind,  with  triple  brass 
Of    calm  endurance   my   weak    breast    I 

armed, 
To  bear  scorn,   fear,   and  hate,  a  woful 

mass ! 

FRAGMENT:    MILTON'S   SPIRIT. 

I  dreamed  that  Milton's  spirit  rose,  and 
took 


1  Perhaps  in  continuation  of  that  immediately 
preceding,  and  so  forming  a  sonnet  —  Ed 


From    life's    green    tree    his    Uranian 

lute, 
And  from  his  touch  sweet  thunder  flowed, 

and  shook 
All  human  things  built   in  contempt  of 

man,  — 
And  sanguine  thrones  and  impious  altars 

quaked, 
Prisons  and  citadels  .  .  . 


FRAGMENT:    UNRISEN 
SPLENDOR. 

Unrisen  splendor  of  the  brightest  sun, 
To  rise  upon  our  darkness,  if  the  star 
Now  beckoning   thee    out  of  thy  misty 

throne 
Could  thaw  the   clouds  which   wage  an 

obscure  war 
With  thy  young  brightness  ! 


NOTE   ON   POEMS   OF    1820, 
BY    MRS.    SHELLEY. 

We  spent  the  latter  part  of  the  year 
1 S 19  in   Florence,  where  Shelley  passed 

■  several  hours  daily  in  the  Gallery,  and 
made  various   notes  on  its  ancient  works 

I   of  art.      His  thoughts  were  a  good   deal 

;  taken  up  also  by  the  project  of  a  steam- 
boat, undertaken  by  a  friend,  an  engineer, 
to  ply  between  Leghorn  and  Marseilles, 
for  which  he  supplied  a  sum  of  money. 
This  was  a  sort  of  plan  to  delight  Shelley. 

i  and  he  was  greatly  disappointed  when  it 
was  thrown  aside. 

There  was  something  in  Florence  that 
disagreed  excessively  with  his  health,  and 
he  suffered  far  more  pain  than  usual;  so 
much  so  that  we  left  it  sooner  than  we 
intended,  and  removed  to  Pisa,  where  we 
had  some  friends,  and,  above  all,  where 
we  could  consult  the  celebrated  Yacca  as 
to  the  cause  of  Shelley's  sufferings.  He, 
like  every  other  medical  man,  could  only 
guess  at  that,  and  gave  him  little  hope 
of  immediate  relief:  he  enjoined  him  to 
abstain  from  all  physicians  and  medicine, 
and  to  leave  his  complaint  to  Nature. 
As  he  had  vainly  consulted  medical  men 


564 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1821. 


of  the  highest  repute  in  England,  he  was 
easily  persuaded  to  adopt  this  advice. 
Pain  and  ill-health  followed  him  to  the 
end;  but  the  residence  at  Pisa  agreed 
with  him  better  than  any  other,  and  there 
in  consequence  we  remained. 

In  the  Spring  we  spent  a  week  or  two 
near  Leghorn,  borrowing  the  house  of 
some  friends  who  were  absent  on  a  jour- 
ney to  England.  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer  evening,  while  wandering  among 
the  lanes  whose  myrtle-hedges  were  the 
bowers  of  the  fireflies,  that  we  heard  the 
carolling  of  the  skylark,  which  inspired 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems. 
He  addressed  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Gisborne 
from  this  house,  which  was  hers :  he  had 
made  his  study  of  the  workshop  of  her 
son,  who  was  an  engineer.  Mrs.  Gis- 
borne had  been  a  friend  of  my  father  in 
her  younger  days.  She  was  a  lady  of 
great  accomplishments,  and  charming 
from  her  frank  and  affectionate  nature. 
She  had  the  most  intense  love  of  knowl- 
edge, a  delicate  and  trembling  sensibility, 
and  preserved  freshness  of  mind  after  a 
life  of  considerable  adversity.  As  a  fa- 
vorite friend  of  my  father,  we  had  sought 
her  with  eagerness;  and  the  most  open 
and  cordial  friendship  was  established 
between  us. 

Our  stay  at  the  Baths  of  San  Giuliano 
was  shortened  by  an  accident.  At  the 
foot  of  our  garden  ran  the  canal  that 
communicated  between  the  Serchio  and 
the  Arno.  The  Serchio  overflowed  its 
banks,  and,  breaking  its  bounds,  this 
canal  also  overflowed;  all  this  part  of  the 
country  is  below  the  level  of  its  rivers, 
and  the  consequence  was  that  it  was 
speedily  flooded.  The  rising  waters  filled 
the  Square  of  the  Paths,  in  the  lower 
part  of  which  our  house  was  situated. 
The  canal  overflowed  in  the  garden  be- 
hind; the  rising  waters  on  either  side  at 
last  burst  open  the  doors,  and,  meeting 
in  the  house,  rose  to  the  height  of  six 
feet.  It  was  a  picturesque  sight  at  night 
to  see  the  peasants  driving  their  cattle 
from  the  plains  below  to  the  hills  above 
the  Paths.  A  fire  was  kept  up  to  guide 
them  across  the  ford;  and  the  forms  of 
the  men  and  the  animals  showed  in  dark 


relief  against  the  red  glare  of  the  flame, 
which  was  reflected  again  in  the  waters 
that  filled  the  Square. 

We  then  removed  to  Pisa,  and  took  up 
our  abode  there  for  the  winter.  The 
extreme  mildness  of  the  climate  suited 
Shelley,  and  his  solitude  was  enlivened 
by  an  intercourse  with  several  intimate 
friends.  Chance  casi  us  strangely  enough 
on  this  quiet  half-unpeopled  town;  but 
its  very  peace  suited  Shelley.  Its  river, 
the  near  mountains,  and  not  distant  sea, 
added  its  attractions,  and  were  the  ob- 
jects of  many  delightful  excursions.  We 
feared  the  south  of  Italy,  and  a  hotter 
climate,  on  account  of  our  child;  our 
former  bereavement  inspiring  us  with 
terror.  We  seemed  to  take  root  here, 
and  moved  little  afterwards;  often,  in- 
deed, entertaining  projects  for  visiting 
other  parts  of  Italy,  but  still  delaying. 
Put  for  our  fears  on  account  of  our  child, 
I  believe  we  should  have  wandered  over 
the  world,  both  being  passionately  fond 
of  travelling.  Put  human  life,  besides 
its  great  unalterable  necessities,  is  ruled 
by  a  thousand  Lilliputian  ties  that  shackle 
at  the  time,  although  it  is  difficult  to  ac- 
count afterwards  for  their  influence  ovei 
our  destiny. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  182 


DIRGE   FOR  THE   YEAR, 


Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep  1 

Merry  hours  smile  instead, 
For  the  year  is  but  asleep, 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 


As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  White  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  death-cold  year  to-dayj 
Solemn  hours!   wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1821 


565 


As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 

So  the  breath  of   these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year: — be  calm  and  mild, 

Trembling  hours,  she  will  arise 

With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 


January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave; 
February  bears  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 
And  April  weeps  —  but,  O,  ye  hours, 
Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 


TO   NIGHT. 


Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of   Night  ! 
Out  of   the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 


Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought  ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day: 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long  sought ! 


When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 
When  light  rode   high,  and  the  dew  was 

gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 


rhy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 
; '•  W'ouldst  thou  me?" 


Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
"  Wouldst  thou  me?  "  —  And  I  replied, 
"  No,  not  thee  !  " 


v. 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon  — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon ! 


TIME. 

Unfathomable   Sea!    whose   waves 
are  years, 
Ocean    of    Time,   whose    waters  of 
deep  woe 
Are    brackish    with    the    salt  of    human 
tears ! 
Thou  shoreless   flood,  which  in  thy 
ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of   mortality  ! 
And  sick  of   prey,  yet  howling  on   for 
more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable 
shore; 
Treacherous  in   calm,   and   terrible  in 
storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea? 


LINES. 


Far,  far  away,  O  ye 
Halcyons  of  memory, 
Seek  some  far  calmer  nest 
Than  this  abandoned  breast ;- 
No  news  of  your  false  spring 
To  my  heart's  winter  bring, 
Once  having  gone,  in  vain 
Ye  come  again. 


566 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


II. 


Vultures,  who  build  your  bowers 
High  in  the  Future's  towers, 
Withered  hopes  on  hopes  are  spread, 
Dying  joys  choked  by  the  dead, 
Will  serve  your  beaks  for  prey 
Many  a  day. 


FROM    THE   ARABIC: 
IMITATION. 


AN 


My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 
Of  thy  looks,  my  love; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 
For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tem- 
pest's flight 
Bore  thee  far  from  me; 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary 
soon, 
Did  companion  thee. 


Ah !    fleeter    far    than    fleetest  storm  or 
steed, 
Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes 
like  a  dove 
With  the  wings  of  care; 
In   the    battle,    in  the   darkness,    in   the 
need, 
Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 
Nor  claim  one   smile  for   all  the  com- 
fort, love, 
It  may  bring  to  thee. 

TO    EMILIA   VIVIANI. 

Madonna,    wherefore    hast    thou    sent 
to  me 
Sweet  basil  and  mignonette? 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never 

yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be. 

Alas,  and  they  are  wet ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears? 
For  never  rain  or  dew 
Such  fragrance  drew 


From  plant  or  flower  —  the   very  doubt 

endears 
My  sadness  ever  new, 
The   sighs   I   breathe,    the    tears  I  shed 

for  thee. 
Send  the  stars  light,  but   send  not  love 

to  me, 
In  whom  love  ever  made 
Health    like  a  heap  of  embers  soon  to 

fade. 


THE   FUGITIVES. 


The  waters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar-spray  is  dancing  — 
Away  ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging, 
The  minster  bells  ringing  — 
Come  away  ! 

The  Earth  is  like  Ocean, 
Wreck -strewn  and  in  motion: 
Bird,  beast,  man,  and  worm 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm, 
Come  away  ! 


II. 


"  Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale;  — 
A  bold  pilot  I  trow, 
Who  should  follow  us  now,"  — ■ 
Shouted  He  — 

And  she  cried:    "  Ply  the  oar! 
Put  off  gayly  from  shore  !  "  — 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death, 
Mixt  with  hail,  speckt  their  path 
O'er  the  sea. 

And  from  isle,  tower,  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon  cloud  broke, 
And  though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flasht  fast 
From  the  lee. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1821. 


567 


in. 


"And  fear'st  thou,  and  fear'st  thou? 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hear'st  thou? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
I  and  thou?  " 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover  — 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low;  — 

While  around  the  lasht  Ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion, 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted, 
Sunk,  shattered  and  shifted 
To  and  fro. 


IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress 
Beside  the  pale  portress, 
Like  a  bloodhound  well  beaten 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame; 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father, 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  e'er  clung  to  child, 
He  devotes  to  the  blast, 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 
Of  his  name  ! 


TO    . 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory  — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heapt  for  the  beloved's  bed; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


SONG. 


Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ( 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'T  is  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

II. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ! 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false  !   thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 


As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  will  not  hear. 


Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure, 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 


I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 

And  the  starry  night; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 


I  love  snow  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Every  thing  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 


568 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


VII. 

LINES    WRITTEN    ON     HEARING 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 
And  such  society 

THE  NEWS  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 

As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good; 

NAPOLEON. 

Between  thee  and  me 

What  difference?  but  thou  dost  possess 

What  !  alive  and  so  bold,  oh  earth? 

The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

Art  thou  not  overbold  ! 

What !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old 

In  the  light  of  thy  morning  mirth, 

VIII. 

The  last  of  the  flock  of  the  starry  fold? 

Ha!  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old?     . 

I  love  Love  —  though  he  has  wings, 

Are  not  the  limbs  still  when  the  ghost  is 

And  like  light  can  flee, 

fled, 

But  above  all  other  things, 

And  canst  thou   move,  Napoleon  being 

Spirit,  I  love  thee  — 

dead? 

Thou  art  love  and  life  !      Oh  come, 

Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 

How  !   is  not  thy  quick  heart  cold? 

What  spark  is  alive  on  thy  hearth? 

How  !  is  not  his  death-knell  knolled? 

And  livest  thou  still,  Mother  Earth? 

Thou  wert  warming  thy  fingers  old 

MUTABILITY. 

O'er  the  embers  covered  and  cold 

Of  that  most  fiery  spirit,  when  it  fled  — > 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

What,  Mother,  do  you  laugh   now  he  i? 

To-morrow  dies; 

dead? 

All  that  we  wish  to  stay 

Tempts  and  then  flies. 

"Who  has  known  me  of  old,"   replied 

What  is  this  world's  delight? 

Earth, 

Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 

"  Or  who  has  my  story  told? 

Brief  even  as  bright. 

It  is  thou  who  art  overbold." 

And  the  lightning  of  scorn  laught  forth 

As  she  sung,  "  To  my  bosom  I  fold 

II. 

All  my  sons  when  their  knell  is  knolled, 

And  so  with  living  motion  all  are  fed, 

Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

And  the  quick   spring  like  weeds  out  of 

Friendship  how  rare  ! 

the  dead. 

Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

For  proud  despair  ! 

"Still    alive    and    still    bold,"    shouted 

But  we,  though  soon  they  fall, 

Earth, 

Survive  their  joy  and  all 

"  I  grow  bolder  and  still  more  bold. 

Which  ours  we  call. 

The  dead  fill  me  ten  thousandfold 

Fuller  of  speed  and  splendor  and  mirth, 

I  was  cloudy,  and  sullen,  and  cold, 

11. 

Like  a  frozen  chaos  uprolled, 

Till  by  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  dead 

Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright, 

My  heart  grew  warm.     I  feed  on  whom 

Whilst  flowers  are  gay, 

I  fed. 

Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 

Make  glad  the  day; 

"  Ay,   alive    and   still    bold,"    muttered 

Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep, 

Earth, 

Dream  thou  —  and  from  thy  sleep 

"Napoleon's  fierce  spirit  rolled, 

Then  wake  to  weep. 

In  terror  and  blood  and  gold? 

POEMS    WRITTEN  IX  1821 


569 


A  torrent  of  ruin  to  death  from  his  birth. 
Leave  the  millions  who  follow  to  mould 
The  metal  before  it  be  cold; 
And  weave    into   his   shame,  which   like 

the  dead 
Shrouds  .me,   the    hopes    that    from  his 

glory  fled." 


SONNET: 


POLITICAL   GREAT 

NESS. 


Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame, 
Nor    peace,    nor    strength,    nor    skill    in 

arms  or  arts, 
Shepherd     those    herds    whom     tyranny 

makes  tame; 
Verse    echoes   not   one    beating  of  their 

hearts, 
History  is  but  the  shadow  of  their  shame, 
Art  veils   her  glass,  or  from  the   pageant 

starts 
As  to  oblivion  their  blind  millions  fleet, 
Staining    that     Heaven    with     obscene 

imagery 
Of  their  own  likeness.      What  are  num- 
bers knit 
By   force    or    custom?     Man    who    man 

would  be, 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself;  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 
On  vanquisht  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 


THE   AZIOLA. 


•'  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry? 
Methinks  she  must  be  nigh," 
Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 
■n  dusk,    ere   stars   were   lit,  or   candles 
brought ; 

And  I,  who  thought 
This  Aziola  was  some  tedious  woman, 
Askt,    "Who    is    Aziola?"      How 
elate 
I  felt    to    know   that   it   was    nothing 
human, 
No   mockery  of    myself    to    fear    or 
hate; 
And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 


And   laught,  and   said,  "  Disquiet  your- 
self not; 
'T  is   nothing   but  a   little  downy 
owl." 


II. 


Sad  Aziola  !   many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 
By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  moun- 
tain side, 

And  fields  and  marshes  wide, 
Such  as   nor   voice,  nor   lute,   nor  wind, 
nor  bird, 

The  soul  ever  stirred; 
Unlike  and  far  sweeter  than  them  all, 
Sad  Aziola  !    from  that  moment  I 

Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 


A   LAMENT. 


O  world  !  O  life  !  O  time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb 

Trembling  at   that   where  I  had  stood 
before : 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more  —  oh,  never  more! 


Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter 
hoar, 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with 
delight 
No  more  —  oh,  never  more  ! 


REMEMBRANCE. 


Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight  — 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight  — 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone  — 
As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when   joy  is  fled, 

I  am  left  lone,  alone. 


570 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


The  swallow  summer  comes  again  — 
The  owlet  night  resumes  her  reign  — 
But  the  wild-swan  youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou.  — 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow : 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow; 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough. 


Ill, 


Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed  — 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head  — 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead  — 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be : 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear  — 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 


TO    EDWARD  WILLIAMS. 


The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise. 
The   wounded  deer    must   seek    the 
herb  no  more 
In  which  its  heart-cure  lies: 
The   widowed    dove   must  cease  to 
haunt  a  bower 
Like    that    from    which    its    mate    with 
feigned  sighs 
Fled  in  the  April  hour. 
I  too  must  seldom  seek  again 
Near  happy  friends  a  mitigated  pain. 


Of  hatred  I  am  proud,  — with  scorn  con- 
tent; 
Indifference,  that  once  hurt  me,  now 
is  grown 
Itself  indifferent. 
Rut  not  to  speak  of  love,  pity  alone 
Can    break   a  spirit    already   more    than 
bent. 
The  miserable  one 
Turns  the  mind's  poison  into  food, — 
Its  medicine  is  tears,  —  its  evil  good. 


Therefore,  if  now  I  see  you  seldomer, 
Dear   friends,   dear  friend  I    know 
that  I  only  fly 
Vour  looks,  because  they  stir 
Griefs  that  should  sleep,  and  hopes 
that  cannot  die : 
The  very  comfort  that  they  minister 
I  scarce  can  bear,  yet  I, 
So  deeply  is  the  arrow  gone, 
Should   quickly  perish   if    it  were  with- 
drawn. 


When  I  return  to  my  cold  home,  you  ask 
Why  I   am  not  as  I  have  ever   been. 

You  spoil  me  for  the  task 
Of  acting  a  forced  part  in  life's  dull 
scene, — 
Of  wearing  on  my  brow  the  idle  mask 
Of   author,  great  or  mean, 
In  the  world's  carnival.      I  sought 
Peace  thus,  and  but  in  you  I  found  it  not. 


Full  half  an  hour  to-day,  I  tried  my  lot 
With  various  flowers,  and  everyone 
still  said, 
"  She  loves  me  —  loves  me  not." 
And    if    this    meant    a    vision    long 
since  fled  — 
If  it   meant    fortune,    fame,   or  peace  of 
thought  — 
If  it  meant,  —  but  I  dread 
To   speak  what  you  may  know  too 
well : 
Still  there  was  truth  in  the  sad  oracle. 


The  crane  o'er  seas  and  forests  seeks  her 
home; 
No    bird  so  wild   but  has  its  quiet 
nest, 
When  it  no  more  would  roam; 
The  sleepless  billows  on  the  ocean's 
breast 
Break  like  a  bursting  heart,  and  die  in 
foam, 

And  thus  at  length  find  rest. 
Doubtless    there  is  a  place  of  peace 
Where  my  weak  heart  and   all  its  throbs 
will  cease. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1821. 


57* 


I  askt  her,  yesterday,  if  she  believed 

That    I    had   resolution.       One  who 
had 
Would  ne'er  have  thus  relieved 
His   heart   with  words, — but   what 
his  judgment  bade 
Would  do,  and    leave  the  scorner  unre- 
lieved. 
These  verses  are  too  sad 
To  send  to  you,  but  that  I  know, 
Happy  yourself,  you  feel  another's  woe. 

TO    . 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  for  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 


I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow 

TO  . 


When  passion's  trance  is  overpast, 
If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last 
Or  live,  whilst  all  wild  feelings  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep, 
I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep  ! 

II. 

Tt  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see, 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 

And  dream  the  rest  —  and  burn  and  be 

The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 

Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 


After  the  slumber  of  the  year 

The  woodland  violets  reappear, 

All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove, 

And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which   move, 

And  form  all  others,  life  and  love. 


A   BRIDAL  SONG. 


The  golden  gates  of  Sleep  unbar 

Where   Strength   and   Beauty,  met  to* 
gether, 

Kindle  their  image  like  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 

Night,  with  all  thy  stars  look  down, — 
Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew,  — 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Let  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight;  — 
Haste,  swift  Hour,  and  thy  flight 
Oft  renew. 


Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels  keep  her! 

Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn,  —  ere  it  be  long! 
O  joy  !   O  fear  !   what  will  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ! 
Come  along  ! 

ANOTHER    VERSION    OF  THE 
SAME. 

NlGHT,  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down! 

Darkness  shed  its  holiest  dew  ! 
When  ever  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true? 
Hence,  coy  Hour  !  and  quench  thy  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight  ! 
Hence,  swift  hour!  and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 

Boys. 
O  joy  !   O  fear  !  why  may  be  done 
In  the  absence  of   the  sun? 

Come  along  ! 


57- 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IiV  182 1. 


The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar  ! 

When   strength   and  beauty  meet    to- 
gether, 
Kindles  their  image  like  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 
Hence,  coy  hour  !  and  quench  thy  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight ! 
Hence,  swift  hour  !   and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 

Girls. 
O  joy  !   O  fear  !   what  may  be  done 


O  joy  !   O  fear  !   what  may  be 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun? 

Cc 


Come  along 


Fairies  !   sprites  !   and  angels  keep  her  ! 

Holiest  powers,  permit  no  wrong  ! 
And  return,  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn,  ere  it  be  long. 
Hence,  swift  hour  !  and  quench  thy  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight ! 
Hence,  coy  hour,  and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 

Boys  and  Girls. 

O  joy  !   O  fear  !   what  will  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun? 

Come  along ! 

ANOTHER    VERSION   OF   THE 
SAME. 

Boys  Sing. 

Night!  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down! 

Darkness  !   weep  thy  holiest  dew  ! 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Haste,  coy  Hour  !   and  quench  all  light, 
Lest  eyes  see  their  own  delight ! 
Haste,  swift  Hour  !    and  thy  loved  flight 
Oft  renew. 

Girls  Sing. 
Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels,  keep  her  ! 

Holy  stars!    permit  no  wrong! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn,  ere  it  be  long! 
O  joy  !   O  fear  !    there  is  not  one 
Of  us  can  guess  what  may  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun;  — 
Come  along  ! 


Boys. 
Oh  !    linger  long,   thou  envious  eastern 
lamp 
In  the  damp 

Caves  of  the  deep  ! 
Girls. 
Nay,  return,  Vesper  !   urge  thy  lazy  car  ! 
Swift  unbar 
The  gates  of  Sleep. 
Chorus. 
The  golden  gate  of  Sleep  unbar, 

When   Strength  and   Beauty,   met  to- 
gether, 
Kindle  their  image,  like  a  star 

In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 
May  the  purple  mist  of  love 
Round  them  rise,  and  with  them  move, 
Nourishing  each  tender  gem 
Which,  like  flowers,  will  burst  from  them. 
As  the  fruit  is  to  the  tree 
May  their  children  ever  be  ! 


LOVE,    HOPE,    DESIRE,   AND 
FEAR. 

And  many  there  were  hurt  by  that  strong 
boy; 
His  name,  they  said,  was  Pleasure. 
And    near    him   stood,   glorious    beyond 

measure, 
Four  Ladies  who  possess  all  empery 

In  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Nothing  that  lives  from   their  award  is 
free. 
Their  names  will  I  declare  to  thee, 
Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  Fear, 
And  they  the  regents  are 
Of    the    four    elements    that    frame    the 

heart, 
And  each  diversely  exercised  her  art 

By  force  or  circumstance  or  sleight 
To  prove  her  dreadful  might 
Upon  that  poor  domain. 
Desire  presented   her   [false]    glass  and 
then 

The  spirit  dwelling  there 
Was  spellbound  to  embrace  what  seemed 
so  fair 

Within  that  magic  mirror, 
And  dazed  by  that  bright  error, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  /A'   1S21. 


573 


It  would  have   scorned  the    [shafts]    of 
the  avenger, 
And  death,  and  penitence,  and  dan- 
ger, 

Had  not  then  silent  Fear 
Touchtwith  her  palsying  spear, 
So  that  as  if  a  frozen  torrent 
The  blood  was  curdled  in  its   cur- 
rent; 
It  dared  not  speak,  even  in  look  or  mo- 
tion, 
But  chained  within  itself  its  proud  devo- 
tion. 
Between  Desire  and  Fear  thou  wert 
A  wretched  thing,  poor  heart ! 
Sad  was   his   life   who  bore   thee   in    his 
breast, 

Wild  bird  for  that  weak  nest. 
Till    Love    even    from    fierce     Desire    it 

bought, 
And    from    the    very  wound    of    tender 

thought 
Drew    solace,    and    the     pity    of     sweet 

eyes 
Gave  strength  to  bear  those  gentle  ago- 
nies, 
Surmount   the  loss,   the  terror,  and  the 
sorrow. 
Then     Hope     approacht,    she   who 

can  borrow 
For  poor  to-day,  from   rich  to-mor- 
row, 
And  Fear  withdrew,  as  night  when 

day 
Descends  upon  the  orient  ray, 
And  after  long  and  vain  endurance 
The  poor   heart  woke    to  her  assu- 
rance. 

—  At    one    birth     these    four   were 

born 
With  the  world's  forgotten  morn, 
And  from  Pleasure  still  they  hold 
All  it  circles,  as  of  old. 
When,   as  summer   lures   the  swal- 
low, 
Pleasure  lures  the  heart  to  follow  — 
O  weak  heart  of  little  wit ! 
The  fair  hand  that  wounded  it, 
Seeking,  like  a  panting  hare, 
Refuge  in  the  lynx's  lair, 
Love,  Desire,  Hope,  and  Fear, 
Ever  will  be  near. 


PROLOGUE   TO    HELLAS. 

Herald  of  Eternity.      It    is    the  day 
when  all  the  sons  of  God 
Wait  in  the  roofless  senate-house,  whose 

floor 
Is  Chaos,  and  the  immovable  abyss 
Frozen  by  his  steadfast  word  to  hyaline 

The  shadow  of   God,  and  delegate 

Of  that  before  whose  breath  the  universe 

Is  as  a  print  of  dew. 

Hierarchs  and  kings 
Who  from  yon  thrones  pinnacled  on  the 

past 
Sway  the  reluctant  present,  ye  who  sit 
Pavilioned  on  the   radiance  or  the  gloom 
Of  mortal  thought,  which  like  an  exhala- 
tion 
Steaming  from  earth,  conceals  the         of 

heaven 
Which  gave  it  birth,  assemble 

here 
Before  your   Father's  throne;   the  swift 

decree 
Yet  hovers,  and  the  fiery  incarnation 
Is  yet  withheld,  clothed  in  which  it  shall 

annul 
The  fairest  of  those  wandering  isles  that 

gem 
The  sapphire  space  of  interstellar  air, 
That  green  and   azure  sphere,  that  earth 

enwrapt 
Less  in  the  beauty  of  its  tender  light 
Than  in  an  atmosphere  of  living  spirit 
Which  interpenetrating  all  the   .   .   . 

it  rolls  from  realm  to  realm 
And  age  to  age,  and  in  its  ebb  and  flow 
Impels  the  generations 
To  their  appointed  place, 
Whilst  the  high  Arbiter 
Beholds  the  strife,  and  at  the  appointed 

time 
Sends  his  decrees  veiled  in  eternal   .    .    . 

Within  the  circuit  of  this  pendant  orb 
There    lies  an   antique    region,  on  which 

fell 
The    dews    of     thought    in    the    world's 

golden  dawn 
Earliest   and  most   benign,   and  from  it 

sprung 


574 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  1821. 


Temples  and  cities  and  immortal  forms 
And  harmonies  of  wisdom  and  of  song, 
And    thoughts,     and    deeds    worthy   of 

thoughts  so  fair. 
And  when  the  sun  of  its  dominion  failed, 
And  when  the  winter  of  its  glory  came, 
The  winds  that  stript  it  bare  blew  on  and 

swept 
The  dew  into  the  utmost  wildernesses 
In  wandering  clouds  of  sunny  rain  that 

thawed 
The  unmaternal  bosom  of  the  North. 
Haste,  sons  of  God,  for  ye 

beheld, 
Reluctant,  or  consenting,  or  astonisht, 
The  stern  decrees  go  forth,  which  heapt 

on  Greece 
Ruin  and  degradation  and  despair. 
A  fourth  now  waits :   assemble,  sons  of 

God, 
To  speed  or  to  prevent  or  to  suspend, 
If,  as  ye  dream,  such  power  be  not  with- 
held, 
The  unaccomplisht  destiny. 


Chi 


The  curtain  of  the  Universe 

Is  rent  and  shattered, 
The  splendor-winged  worlds  disperse 

Like  wild  doves  scattered. 

Space  is  roofless  and  bare, 
And  in  the  midst  a  cloudy  shrine, 

Dark  amid  thrones  of  light. 
In  the  blue  glow  of  hyaline 
Golden  worlds  revolve  and  shine. 

In  flight 

From  every  point  of  the  Infinite, 

Like  a  thousand    dawns    on  a  single 
night 
The  splendors  rise  and  spread; 
And  thro'  thunder  and  darkness  dread 
Light  and  music  are  radiated, 
And  in  their  pavilioned  chariots  led 
By  living  wings  high  overhead 

The  giant  Powers  move, 
Gloomy  or  bright  as  the  thrones  they  fill. 

A  chaos  of  light  and  motion 
Upon  that  glassy  ocean. 


The  senate  of  the  Gods  is  met, 
Each  in  his  rank  and  station  set; 

There  is  silence  in  the  spaces  — 
Lo  !  Satan,  Christ,  and  Mahomet 

Start  from  their  places  ! 
Christ.  Almighty  Father ! 

Low-kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Destiny 

There  are  two  fountains  in  which  spirits 

weep 
When  mortals  err,  Discord  and  Slavery 

named, 
And  with  their  bitter  dew  two  Destinies 
Filled   each  their   irrevocable   urns;   the 

third, 
Fiercest  and  mightiest,  mingled  both,  and 

added 
Chaos  and  Death,  and    slow  Oblivion'/; 

lymph, 
And  hate   and  terror,  and  the   poisoned 


The    Aurora    of    the    nations.     By  this 

brow 
Whose   pores  wept    tears  of   blood,   by 

these  wide  wounds, 
By  this  imperial  crown  of  agony, 
By  infamy  and  solitude  and  death, 
For  this  I  underwent,  and  by  the  pain 
Of  pity  for  those  who  would  for 

me 
The  unremembered  joy  of  a  revenge, 
For  this  I  felt  —  by  Plato's  sacred  light, 
Of  which  my  spirit  was  a   burning  mor- 
row — 
By  Greece  and  all  she  cannot  cease  to  be, 
Her  quenchless  words,  sparks  of  immor- 
tal truth, 
Stars  of  all   night  —  her   harmonies  and 

forms, 
Echoes  and  shadows  of  what  Love  adores 
In   thee,  I    do  compel   thee,    send  forth 

Fate, 
Thy  irrevocable  child :   let  her  descend 
A  seraph- winged  victory  [arrayed] 
In  tempest  of  the  omnipotence  of  God 
Which  sweeps  through  all  things. 

From  hollow  leagues,  from  Tyranny 
which  arms 

Adverse  miscreeds  and  emulous  anar- 
chies 


OEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1S21. 


575 


To    stamp,   as    on    a    winged    serpent's 

seed, 
Upon  the  name  of  Freedom;    from  the 

storm 
Of  faction  which  like  earthquake  shakes 

and  sickens 
The  solid  heart  of  enterprise;    from  all 
By  which  the  holiest  dreams  of  highest 

spirits 
Are  stars  beneath  the  dawn   .   .   . 

She  shall  arise 
Victorious    as    the    world     arose     from 

Chaos  ! 
And    as    the    Heavens    and    the    Earth 

arrayed 
Their   presence    in    the    beauty  and  the 

light 
Of    thy  first    smile,  O    Father,   as    they 

gather 
The  spirit  of  thy  love  which   paves   for 

them 
Their    path    o'er    the    abyss,    till    every 

sphere 
Shall    be    one    living    Spirit,    so    shall 

Greece  — 
Satan.     Be  as  all  things  beneath  the 

empyrean, 
Mine  !      Art  thou  eyeless  like  old  Des- 
tiny, 
Thou    mockery-king,     crowned    with    a 

wreath  of  thorns? 
Whose  sceptre  is  a  reed,  the  broken  reed, 
Which    pierces    thee !     whose    throne    a 

chair  of  scorn; 
For  seest  thou   not   beneath   this   crystal 

floor 
The  innumerable  worlds  of  golden  light 
Which  are  my  empire,  and  the  least  of 

them 

which  thou  wouldst  redeem 

from  me? 
Know'st  thou  not  them  my  portion? 
Or  wouldst  rekindle  the  strife 

Which  our  great  Father  then  did  arbitrate 
Which    he    assigned    to     his    competing 

sons 
Each  his  apportioned  realm? 

Thou  Destiny, 
Thou  who  art  mailed  in  the  omnipotence 
Of  Him  who  sends  thee  forth,  whate'er 

thy  task, 
Speed,  spare  not  to  accomplish,  and  be 

mine 


Thy  trophies,  whether  Greece  again  be- 
come 

The  fountain  in  the  desert  whence  the  earth 

Shall  drink  of  freedom,  which  shall  give 
it  strength 

To  suffer,  or  a  gulf  of  hollow  death 

To  swallow  all  delight,  all  life,  all  hope. 

Go,  thou  Vicegerent  of  my  will,  no  less 

Than    of     the    Father's;     but    lest    thou 
shouldst  faint, 

The  winged  hounds,  Famine  and  Pesti- 
lence, 

Shall  wait  on  thee,  the  hundred-forked 
snake 

Insatiate  Superstition  still  shall  .   .   . 

The    earth    behind    thy  steps,  and  War 
shall  hover 

Above,  and  Fraud  shall  gape  below,  and 
Change 

Shall  flit  before  thee  on  her  dragon  wings, 

Convulsing  and  consuming,  and  I  add 

Three  vials  of  the  tears  which  demons 
weep 

When  virtuous  spirits  thro'  the  gate  of 
Death 

Pass  triumphing  over  the  thorns  of  life, 

Sceptres  and  crowns,  mitres  and  swords 
and  snares 

Trampling  in  scorn,  like  Him  and  Soc- 
rates. 

The  first  is  Anarchy;    when   Power  and 
Pleasure, 

Glory  and  science  and  security, 

On  Freedom  hang  like  fruit  on  the  green 
tree, 

Then  pour  it  forth,  and  men  shall  gather 
ashes. 

The  second  Tyranny  — 

Christ.  Obdurate  spirit ! 

Thou  seest  but  the  Past  in  the  To-come. 

Pride  is  thy  error  and  thy  punishment. 

Boast  not  thine   empire,  dream    not  that 
thy  worlds 

Are  more  than  furnace-sparks  or  rainbow- 
drops 

Before  the  Power  that  wields  and  kindles 
them. 

True  greatness  asks  not  space,  true  ex- 
cellence 

Lives  in  the  Spirit  of  all  things  that  live, 

Which  lends  it  to  the  worlds  thou  callest 
thine. 


576 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


Mahomet.      .      .      .      Haste  thou  and 

fill  the  waning  crescent 
With    beams    as    keen    as    those    which 

pierced  the  shadow 
Of  Christian  night  rolled  back  upon   the 

West 
When  the  orient  moon  of  Islam  rode  in 

triumph 
From  Tmolus  to  the  Acroceraunian  snow. 

Wake,  thou  Word 
Of  God,  and  from  the  throne  of  Destiny 
Even  to  the  utmost  limit  of  thy  way 
May  Triumph 

Be  thou  a  curse  on  them  whose 
creed 
Divides    and    multiplies    the    most    high 
God. 


FRAGMENTS   WRITTEN   FOR 
HELLAS. 


Fairest  of  the  Destinies, 
Disarray  thy  dazzling  eyes : 
Keener  far  thy  lightnings  are 

Than    the    winged    [bolts]     thou 
bearest, 

And  the  smile  thou  wearest 
Wraps  thee  as  a  star 

Is  wrapt  in  light. 


Could  Arethuse  to  her  forsaken  urn 
From  Alpheus  and  the  bitter  Doris  run, 
Or  could  the  morning  shafts  of  purest 
light 
Again  into  the- quivers  of  the  Sun 

Be  gathered  —  could  one  thought  from 
its  wild  flight 
Return  into  the  temple  of  the  brain 

Without  a  change,  without  a  stain,  — 
Could  aught  that  is,  ever  again 
Be  what  it  once  has  ceased  to  be, 
Greece  might  again  be  free  ! 


A  star  has  fallen  upon  the  earth 
Mid  the  benighted  nations, 


A  quenchless  atom  of  immortal  light, 
A  living  spark  of  Night, 
A  cresset  shaken  from  the  constellations 
Swifter  than  the  thunder  fell 
To  the  heart  of  Earth,  the  well 
Where  its  pulses  flow  and  beat, 
And  unextinct  in  that  cold  source 
Burns,  and  on  course 

Guides  the  sphere  which  is  its  prison, 
Like  an  angelic  spirit  pent 
In  a  form  of  mortal  birth, 
Till,  as  a  spirit  half  arisen 

Shatters  its  charnel,  it  has  rent, 

In  the  rapture  of  its  mirth, 

The   thin    and    painted   garment   of    the 

Earth, 
Ruining  its  chaos  —  a  fierce  breath 
Consuming  all  its  forms  of  living  death. 


.FRAGMENT: 


'  I  WOULD  NOT  BE 
KING." 


I  WOULD  not  be  a  king  —  enough 

Of  woe  it  is  to  love; 
The  path  to  power  is  steep  and  rough, 

And  tempests  reign  above. 
I  would  not  climb  the  imperial  throne; 
'T  is  built  on  ice  which  fortune's  sun 

Thaws  in  the  height  of  noon. 
Then  farewell,  king,  yet  were  I  one, 

Care  would  not  come  so  soon. 
Would  he  and  I  were  far  away 
Keeping  flocks  on  Himalay  ! 


GINEVRA. 

Wild,  pale,  and  wonder-stricken,  even 

as  one 
Who  staggers  forth  into  the  air  and  sun 
From    the    dark    chamber    of     a    mortal 

fever, 
Bewildered,  and  incapable,  and  ever 
Fancying  strange  comments  in   her  dizzy 

brain 
Of  usual  shapes,  till  the  familiar  train 
Of     objects    and    of     persons    past    like 

things 
Strange  as  a  dreamer's  mad  imaginings, 
Ginevra  from  the  nuptial  altar  went; 
The  vows  to  which   her  lips  had   sworn 

assent 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


57) 


Rung  in  her  brain  still  with  a  jarring  din, 
Deafening  the  lost  intelligence  within. 

And  so   she   moved  under  the   bridal 

veil, 
Which  made  the   paleness  of  her  cheek 

more  pale, 
And  deepened  the   faint  crimson  of  her 

mouth, 
And  darkened  her  dark   locks  as  moon- 
light doth, — 
And   of    the   gold    and   jewels   glittering 

there 
She    scarce    felt    conscious,  —  but    the 

weary  glare 
Lay  like  a  chaos  of  unwelcome  light, 
Vexing   the  sense  with   gorgeous   unde- 

light. 
A  moonbeam  in  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Was  less    heavenly   fair  —  her   face    was 

bowed, 
And  as  she  past,  the  diamonds  in  her  hair 
Were     mirrored     in   the    polisht    marble 

stair 
Which   led    from    the    cathedral    to    the 

street: 
And  ever  as  she  went  her  light  fair  feet 
Erased  these  images. 

The    bride  -  maidens    who    round    her 

thronging  came, 
Some   with  a  sense   of    self-rebuke   and 

shame, 
Envying  the  unenviable;    and  others 
Making  the  joy  which  should  have  been 

another's 
Their    own    by    gentle    sympathy;     and 

some 
Sighing  to  think  of  an  unhappy  home: 
Some  few  admiring  what  can  ever  lure 
Maidens  to  leave  the  heaven  serene  and 

pure 
Of  parents'  smiles  for  life's  great  cheat; 

a  thing 
Bitter  to  taste,  sweet  in  imagining. 

But   they   are   all    disperst — and,    lo  ! 

she  stands 
Looking  in  idle  grief  on  her  white  hands. 
Alone  within  the  garden  now  her  own; 
And  thro'    the  sunny   air,   with   jangling 

tone, 
The  music  of  the  merry  marriage  bells, 


I   Killing    the    azure    silence,    sinks    and 
swells;  — 
Absorbed  like  one  within   a  dream  who 
dreams 
'  That    he    is    dreaming,     until     slumber 
seems 
A  mockery  of  itself  —  when  suddenly 
!   Antonio  stood  before  her,  pale  as  she. 
j  With     agony,     with    sorrow,    and     with 
pride, 
He  lifted  his  wan  eyes  upon  the  bride, 
And  said  —  "Is   this   thy   faith?"    and 

then  as  one 
Whose  sleeping  face   is   stricken    by   the 
sun 
I   With  light  like  a  harsh  voice,  which  bids 

him  rise 
j   And  look  upon  his  day  of  life  with  eyes 
Which  weep  in  vain  that  they  can  dream 

no  more, 
Ginevra  saw  her  lover,  and  forbore 
j  To  shriek  or  faint,  and  checkt  the  stifling 
blood 
Rushing  upon  her  heart,  and   unsubdued 
Said — "Friend,    if  earthly  violence   or 

.  .iH' 
Suspicion,  doubt,  or  the  tyrannic  will 

Of   parents,  chance,    or    custom,  time  or 

change, 
Or  circumstance,  or  terror,  or  revenge, 
Or    wildeied    looks,    or    words,    or    evil 

speech, 
With  all  their  stings  and  venom  can  im- 
peach 
'■■   Our  love,  —  we  love  not :  —  if  the  grave 

which  hides 
The  victim  from  the  tyrant,  and  divides 
The    cheek  that    whitens  from    the   eyes 

that  dart 
I    Imperious  inquisition  to  the  heart 
That  is  another's  could  dissever  ours, 
We   love    not."  —  "What'    do   not    the 

silent  hours 
I   Beckon  thee  to  Gherardi's  bridal  bed? 
Is  not  that  ring  "  — a  pledge,  he  would 

have  said, 
Of   broken  vows,   but   she  with   patient 

look 
The  golden  circle  from  her  finger  took, 
And  said — "Accept  this  token   of    my 

faith, 
The  pledge   of  vows  to  be   absolved  by 
I  death; 


573 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1821. 


And  I   am  dead  or  shall  be  soon  —  my 

knell 
Will  mix  its  music  with  that  merry  bell; 
Does  it  not  sound  as  if  they  sweetly  said 
'  We   toll  a  corpse  out  of  the  marriage- 
bed?' 
The    flowers    upon    my    bridal    chamber 

strewn 
Will  serve  unf aded  for  my  bier  —  so  soon 
That  even  the  dying  violet  will  not  die 
Before  Ginevra."     The  strong  fantasy 
Had  made  her  accents  weaker  and  more 

weak, 
And  quencht  the  crimson  life  upon  her 

cheek, 
And  glazed  her  eyes,  and  spread  an  at- 
mosphere 
Round   her,    which   chilled   the  burning 

noon  with  fear, 
Making  her  but  an  image  of  the  thought, 
Which,    like    a    prophet    or    a    shadow, 

brought 
News  of  the  terrors  of  the  coming  time. 
Like  an  accuser  branded  with  the  crime 
He  would  have  cast  on  a  beloved  friend, 
Whose  dying  eyes  reproach  not  to  the  end 
The    pale    betrayer  —  he    then  with  vain 

repentance 
Would  share,   he  cannot  now  avert,  the 

sentence  — 
Antonio  stood  and  would  have   spoken, 

when 
The  compound  voice  of  women  and   of 

men 
Was    heard     approaching;     he     retired, 

while  she 
Was  led  amid  the  admiring  company 
Back  to  the  palace,  —  and    her  maidens 

soon 
Changed  her  attire  for  the  afternoon, 
And  left  her  at  her  own  request  to  keep 
An  hour  of  quiet  and   rest.  —  Like  one 

asleep 
With   open   eyes   and   folded  hands  she 

.    la>''    . 
Pale  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day. 

Meanwhile  the  day  sinks  fast,  the  sun 

is  set, 
And    in   the   lighted  hall  the   guests   are 

met; 
The  beautiful  looked  lovelier  in  the  light 
Of   love,  and  admiration,  and  delight 


Reflected   from   a  thousand    hearts    and 
eyes 

Kindling  a  momentary  Paradise. 

This  crowd  is  safer  than  the  silent  wood, 
j  Where    love's    own    doubts    disturb    the 

solitude; 
;   On  frozen  hearts  the  fiery  rain  of   wine 

Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music  more  divine 

Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time 

To  spirits  cradled  in  a  sunny  clime :  — 
j   How  many  meet  who  never  yet  have  met, 
!  To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to  forget ! 
\   How  many  saw  the   beauty,  power  and 
wit 

Of   looks    and    words    which    ne'er    en- 
chanted yet ! 
1  But  life's   familiar  veil   was    now    with- 
drawn, 
\  As  the  world  leaps  before  an  earthquake's 

dawn, 
1  And  unprophetic  of  the  coming  hours, 

The    matin    winds    from    the    expanded 
flowers, 

Scatter     their     hoarded     incense,     and 
awaken 

The  earth,  until  the  dewy  sleep  is  shaken 

From    every  living    heart  which  it  pos- 
sesses, 

Thro'  seas  and  winds,  cities  and  wilder- 
nesses, 

As  if  the  future  and  the  past  were  all 
:   Treasured  i*  the  instant:  — so  Gherardi's 

hall 
I   Laught  in  the  mirth  of  its  lord's  festival, 

Till    some   one    askt  —  "Where    is    the 
Bride?  "     And  then 

A  bride's-maid  went,  —  and  ere  she  came 
again 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  guests  —  a  pause 

Of  expectation,  as  when  beauty  awes 

All  hearts  with  its  approach,  tho'  unbe- 
held: 

Then  wonder,  and  then  fear  that  wonder 
quelled;  — 

For  whispers  past    from    mouth    to    ear 
which  drew 

The  color  from  the  hearer's  cheeks,  and 
flew 

Louder  and  swifter  round  the  company; 

And  then  Gherardi  entered  with  an  eye 

Of  ostentatious  trouble,  and  a  crowd 

Surrounded    him,  and  some  w^re    *veep- 
ing  loud. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN   1S21. 


579 


They  found  Ginevra  dead  !  if  it  be  death, 
To  lie  without  motion,  or  pulse,  or  breath, 
With  waxen  eheeks,  and  limbs  cold,  stiff, 

and  white, 
And  open  eyes,   whose    fixt    and    glassy 

light 
Mockt  at  the  speculation  they  had  owned. 
If  it  be  death,  when  there  is  felt  around 
A  smell  of  clay,  a  pale  and  icy  glare, 
And   silence,  and   a  sense  that   lifts    the 

hair 
From  the  scalp  to  the  ankles,  as  it  were 
Corruption  from  the  spirit  passing  forth, 
And  giving  all  it  shrouded  to  the  earth, 
And  leaving  as  swift  lightning  in  its  flight 
Ashes,  and  smoke,  and  darkness:  in  our 

night 
Of  thought  we  know  thus  much  of  death, 

—  no  more 
Than  the  unborn  dream  of  our  life  before 
Their  barks  are  wreckt  on  its  inhospitable 

shore. 

The  marriage  feast  and  its  solemnity 

Was  turned  to  funeral  pomp  —  the  com- 
pany 

With  heavy  hearts  and  looks,  broke  up; 
nor  they 

Who  loved  the  dead  went  weeping  on 
their  way 

Alone,  but  sorrow  mixt  with  sad  surprise 

Loosened  the  springs  of  pity  in  all 
eyes, 

On  which  that  form,  whose  fate  they 
weep  in  vain, 

Will  never,  thought  they,  kindle  smiles 
again. 

The  lamps  which  half  extinguisht  in  their 
haste 

Gleamed  lew  and  faint  o'er  the  aban- 
doned feast, 

Showed  as  it  were  within  the  vaulted 
room 

A  cloud  of  sorrow  hanging,  as  if  gloom 

Had  past  out  of  men's  minds  into  the  air. 

Some  few  yet  stood  around  Gherardi 
there, 

Friends  and  relations  of  the  dead,  — 
and  he, 

A  loveless  man,  accepted  torpidly 

The  consolation  that  he  wanted  not, 

A.we  in  the  place  of  grief  within  him 
wrought. 


1   Their  whispers  made  the   solemn  silence 
seem 
More  still — some  wept,    .    .    . 
I   Some  melted  into  tears  without  a  sob, 
I   And    some    with    hearts    that    might    be 

heard  to  throb 
!    Leant  on  the  table,  and  at  intervals 
i   Shuddered    to    hear    thro'    the    deserted 

halls 
;   And  corridors  the  thrilling  shrieks  which 
came 
Upon  the  breeze  of  night,  that  shook  the 

flame 
Of   every  torch  and  taper  as  it  swept 
From  out  the  chamber  where  the  women 
kept:  — 
■   Their  tears    fell   on  the   dear   companion 
cold 
Of    pleasures   now    departed;    then   was 
knolled 
\   The  bell  of  death,  and   soon  the   priests 

arrived, 
i   And    finding    death    their    penitent   had 

shrived, 
J   Returned     like     ravens    from    a    corpse 
whereon 
A  vulture  has  just  feasted  to  the  bone. 
I  And  then  the  mourning  women  came.  — 


THE    DIRGE. 

Old  winter  was  gone 
In  his  weakness  back  to  the  mountains 
hoar, 
And  the  spring  came  down 
From   the   planet   that   hovers   upon    the 
shore 
Where  the  sea  of  sunlight   encroaches 
On  the  limits  of  wintry  night:  — 
If  the  land,  and  the  air,  and  the  sea, 

Rejoice  not  when  spring  approaches, 
We  did  not  rejoice  in  thee, 
Ginevra ! 

She  is  still,  she  is  cold 

On  the  bridal  couch, 
One  step  to  the  white  death-bed, 

And  one  to  the  bier, 
And  one  to   the  charnel  —  and  one,   oh 
where  ? 

The  dark  arrow  fled 

In  the  noon. 


58° 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1821. 


Ere  the  sun  thro'  heaven  once  more  has 

rolled, 
The  rats  in  her  heart 
Will  have  made  their  nest, 
And  the  worms  be  alive  in  her  golden 

hair, 
While  the  spirit  that  guides  the  sun, 
Sits  throned  in  his  flaming  chair, 

She  shall  sleep. 


EVENING:  PONTE   A   MARE, 
PISA. 


The  sun  is  set;  the  swallows  are  asleep; 
The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners 
creep, 
And  evening's  breath,  wandering  here 
and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream, 
Wakes  not  one   ripple   from  its  summer 
dream. 


There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night, 

Nor  damp  within  the  shadow   of  the 

trees; 

The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry,  and  light; 

And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the 

breeze 

The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and 

down, 
And  whirled  about  the  pavement  of  the 
town. 

III. 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 
The  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  lay, 

Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away; 

Go  to  the   .   .   . 

Vou,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as 
now. 


IV. 


The   chasm  in  which   the   sun   has  sunk 

is  shut 
Hy  darkest  barriers  of  cinereous  cloud, 
Like  mountain  over  mountain  huddled  — 

but 


Growing   and   moving    upwards    in    a 

crowd, 
And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue, 
Which  the  keen  evening  star  is  shining 

thro'. 


THE   BOAT  ON   THE   SERCHIO. 

Our  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio's  stream, 
Its  sails  are  folded  like    thoughts    in    a 

dream, 
The  helm  sways  idly,  hither  and  thither; 
Dominic,    the    boatman,  has    brought 

the  mast, 
And  the  oars  and  the  sails;  but  't  is 
sleeping  fast, 
Like  a  beast,  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stars  burnt  out  in  the  pale  blue  air, 
And  the  thin  white  moon  lay  withering 

there, 
To  tower,  and  cavern,  and  rift  and  tree, 
The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily. 
Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods, 

And  the  rocks  above  and  the  stream 

below, 
And  the  vapors  in  their  multitudes, 
And  the  Apennine's  shroud  of  summer 

snow, 
And  clothed  with  light  of  aery  gold 
The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uprolled. 

Day  had  awakened  all  things  that  be, 
The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow 

free, 
And    the    milkmaid's    song    and    the 

mower's  scythe, 
And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain  bee  : 
Fire-flies  were  quencht  on  the  dewy  corn, 
Glow-worms  went   out   on   the  river's 

brim, 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to 

trim : 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn, 
The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow 

and  hill: 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one, 
Fled  from    the    brains    which    are    their 

prey 
From  the  lamp's  death  to   the  morning 

ray. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


581 


All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each, 
Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our 
own; 
The  million  rose  to  learn,   and    one    to 
teach 
What  none  yet  ever  knew  or  can   be 
known. 
And  many  rose 
Whose  woe  was  such  that  fear  became 
desire;  — 
Melchior    and    Lionel  were    not    among 

those; 
They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stept 

aside, 
And  made  their  home  under   the  green 

hillside. 
It  was  that  hill,  whose  intervening  brow 
Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious 
eye, 
Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  be- 
low, 
Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  fertility, 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare, 
Divides    from    the    far    Apennines  — 
which  lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

"  What  think  you,  as  she  lies  in  her  green 

cove, 
Our  little  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of  ?  " 
"  If    morning   dreams    are    true,    why   I 

should  guess 
That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness, 
And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way 
We  should  have  led  her  by  this  time   of 

day."  — 

"Never  mind,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear 

it  well 
About  yon  poplar  tops;  and  see  ! 
The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily, 
And  the  stars  we   miss   this   morn  will 

light 
More  willingly  our  return  to-night.  — 
How  it  whistles,  Dominic's  long  black 

hair ! 
List  my  dear  fellow;  the  breeze  blows 

fair: 
Hear  how  it  sings  into  the  air." 

"  Of  us  and  of  our  lazy  motions," 
Impatiently  said  Melchior, 


"If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions; 
And  how  we    ought,    two    hours 
before, 
To  have  been  the  devil  knows  where." 
And  then,  in  such  transalpine  Tuscan 
As  would  have  killed  a  Della-Cruscan, 

So,  Lionel  according  to  his  art 

Weaving    his     idle    words,     Melchior 

said : 
"She  dreams  that  we  are  not  yet  out 
of  bed; 
We'll  put  a  soul  into  her,  and  a  heart 
Which  like  a  dove  chased  by  a  dove  shall 
beat." 


"  Ay,  heave  the  ballast  over- 
board, 
And    stow    the    eatables    in    the    aft 

locker." 
"Would  not  this  keg  be    best    a   little 

lowered?  " 
"  No,  now  all  's  right."     "  Those  bottles 

of  warm  tea  — 
(Give  me  some  straw)  — must  be  stowed 

tenderly; 
Such  as  we  used,  in  summer  after  six, 
To  cram  in  great-coat  pockets,  and  to  mix 
Hard  eggs  and  radishes  and  rolls  at  Eton, 
And,  coucht  on  stolen  hay  in  these  green 

harbors 
Farmers  called  gaps,  and  we  schoolboys 

called  arbors, 
Would  feast  till  eight." 

With  a  bottle  in  one  hand, 
As  if  his  very  soul  were  at  a  stand, 
Lionel   stood  —  when   Melchior  brought 

him  steady :  — 
"  Sit  at  the  helm  —  fasten   this  sheet  — 

all  ready  ! ' ' 

The  chain  is  loost,  the  sails  are  spread, 

The  living  breath  is  fresh  behind, 
As  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed, 

Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind ;  — 
The  sails  are  full,  the  boat  makes  head 
Against  the  Serchio's  torrent  fierce, 
Then  flags  with  intermitting  course, 

And  hangs  upon  the  wave,  and  stems 

The  tempest  of  the  .   .   . 
Which  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  182 1. 


Shallow,     smooth    and     strong    doth 

come,  — 
Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 
It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea; 
In  morning's  smile  its  eddies  coil, 
Its  billows  sparkle,  toss  and  boil, 
Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 
Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 

The  Serchio,  twisting  forth 
Between    the    marble    barriers  which    it 
clove 
At  Ripafratta,   leads  thro'    the  dread 
chasm 
The    wave    that    died   the    death    which 
lovers  love, 
Living  in  what  it  sought;    as  if    this 
spasm 
Had  not  yet  past,  the    toppling    moun- 
tains cling, 
But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  then  wandering 
Down    one    clear    path    of    effluence 
crystalline, 
Sends  its    superfluous  waves,  that    they 
may  fling 
At    Arno's    feet    tribute   of    corn   and 
wine, 
Then,  thro'  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 
Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunt- 
ed pine, 
It  rushes  to  the  Ocean. 


MUSIC. 


I  PANT  for  the  music  which  is  divine, 
My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower; 

Pour  forth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine, 
Loosen  the  notes  in  a  silver  shower; 

Like  a  herbless  plain,  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  I  faint,  till  they  wake  again. 


Let  me  drink  of  the  spirit  of  that  sweet 
sound, 
More,  oh  more,  — I  am  thirsting  yet, 
It   loosens   the   serpent   which   care   has 
bound 
Upon  my  heart  to  stifle  it; 
The  dissolving  strain,  thro'  every  vein, 
Passes  into  my,  heart  and  brain. 


As  the  scent  of  a  violet  withered  up, 
Which  grew  by  the  brink  of  a  silver 

lake; 
When  the  hot  noon  has  drained  its  dewy 

cup, 
And  mist  there  was  none  its  thirst  to 

slake  — 
And  the  violet  lay  dead  while  the  odor 

flew 
On  the  wings  of  the  wind  o'er  the  waters 

blue  — 


As  one  who  drinks  from  a  charmed  cup 
Of  foaming    and  sparkling  and   mur- 
muring wine, 

Whom,  a  mighty  Enchantress  filling  up, 
Invites  to  love  with  her  kiss  divine  .  .  . 

SONNET  TO  BYRON. 

[I  AM  afraid  these  verses  will  not  please 

you,  but] 
If  I  esteemed  you  less,  Envy  would  kill 
Pleasure,    and    leave    to    Wonder    and 

Despair 
The  ministration  of  the  thoughts  that  fill 
The    mind   which,    like    a   worm   whose 

life  may  share 
A  portion  of  the  unapproachable, 
Marks  your  creations  rise  as  fast  and  fair 
As  perfect  worlds  at  the  Creator's  will. 
But    such   is   my   regard   that    nor    your 

power 
To  soar  above  the  heights  where  others 

[climb], 
Nor   fame,    that  shadow   of   the   unborn 

hour 
Cast  from  the  envious  future  on  the  time, 
Move  one  regret  for  his  unhonored  name 
Who  dares  these  words:  — the  worm  be- 
neath the  sod 
May  lift  itself  in  homage  of  the  God. 

FRAGMENT  ON  KEATS, 

WHO    DESIRED    THAT   ON    HIS   TOMB 
SHOULD    BE    INSCRIBED  — 

"  Here  lieth  One  whose  name  was  writ 
on  water." 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1821. 


5^3 


But,  ere  the  breath  that  could  erase  it 
blew, 
Death,  in  remorse  for  that  fell  slaughter, 
Death,  the  immortalizing  winter,  flew 
Athwart     the     stream,  —  and     time's 
printless  torrent  grew 
A  scroll  of  crystal,  blazoning  the  name 
Of  Adonais.  — 


FRAGMENT :  "  METH OUGHT  I 
WAS  A  BILLOW  IN  THE 
CROWD." 

Methought  I  was  a  billow  in  the  crowd 
Of  common  men,  that  stream  without 
a  shore, 
That  ocean  which  at   once   is   deaf   and 
loud; 
That  I,  a  man,  stood  amid  many  more 
By  a  wayside   ....  which  the  aspect 
bore 
Of  some  imperial  metropolis, 

Where       mighty      shapes  —  pyramid, 
dome,  and  tower  — 
Gleamed  like  a  pile  of  crags. 

TO-MORROW. 

Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow? 

When  young  and  old  and  strong  and 
weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  thro'  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek, — 
In  thy  place  — ah  !   well-a-day  ! 
We  find  the  thing  we  fled  —  To-day. 

STANZA.1 

If  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even 

While  the  dead  leaves  pass, 
If  I  look  on  Spring's  soft  heaven,  — 

Something  is  not  there  which  was. 
Winter's  wondrous  frost  and  snow, 
Summer's  clouds,  where  are  they  now? 

FRAGMENT:   A  WANDERER. 

He  wanders,  like  a  day-appearing  dream, 
Thro'    the    dim    wildernesses    of    the 
mind; 

1  Perhaps  in  continuation  of  "  To-morrow."  — 
Ed. 


Thro'   desert   woods    and    tracts,   which 
seem 
Like  ocean,  homeless,  boundless,  un- 
contined. 


FRAGMENT:    PEACE  SURROUND- 
ING LIFE. 

The  babe  is  at  peace  within  the  womb, 
The  corpse  is  at  rest  within  the  tomb, 
We  begin  in  what  we  end. 

FRAGMENT:    "I  FAINT,  I  PERISH 
WITH  MY  LOVE!" 

I  faint,  I  perish  with  my  love  !  I  grow 
Frail  as  a  cloud  whose  [splendors] 
pale 

Under  the  evening's  ever-changing  gluw  : 
I  die  like  mist  upon  the  gale, 

And  like  a  wave  under  the  calm  I  fail. 


FRAGMENT:  THE  LADY  OF  THE 
SOUTH. 

Faint  with  love,  the  Lady  of  the 
South 
Lay  in  the  paradise  of  Lebanon 
Under   a  heaven  of   cedar  boughs;    the 
drouth 
Of  love  was  on  her  lips;   the  light  was 
gone  . 
Out  of  her  eyes. 

FRAGMENT:  THE  AWAKENER. 

Come,    thou    awakener    of    the    spirit's 
ocean, 
Zephyr,  whom  to  thy  cloud  or  cave 
No  thought  can  trace  !  speed  with   thy 
gentle  motion  ! 

FRAGMENT:   RAIN. 
The  gentleness  of  rain  was  in  the  wind. 

FRAGMENT:  AMBUSHED 
DANGERS. 

When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies 
With  the  green  earth  harmonize, 


5?4 


NOTE    ON  POEMS   OF  1821. 


And  llu  young  and  dewy  dawn, 
Bold  as  an  unhunted  fawn, 
Up  the  windless  heaven  is  gone, — 
Laugh  —  for  ambusht  in  the  day,  — 
Clouds    and    whirlwinds    watch    their 


prey. 

•RAGMENT:        "AND 
WALK         THUS 
CROWNED." 


THAT      I 
PROUDLY 


And  that  I  walk  thus  proudly  crowned 

withal 
Is  that  't  is  my  distinction;   if  I  fall, 
I  shall  not  weep  out  of  the  vital  day, 
To-morrow  dust,  nor  wear  a  dull  decay. 

FRAGMENT:    "THE   RUDE  WIND 
IS  SINGING." 

The  rude  wind  is  singing 

The  dirge  of  the  music  dead, 

The  cold  worms  are  clinging 
Where  kisses  were  lately  fed. 

FRAGMENT:   "  GREAT  SPIRIT." 

Great  Spirit  whom  the  sea  of  boundless 
thought 

Nurtures  within  its  unimagined  caves, 
In  which  thou  sittest  sole,  as  ;n  my  mind, 

Giving  a  voice  to  its  mysterious  waves. 

FRAGMENT:    "O   THOU 
IMMORTAL  DEITY." 

0  thou  immortal  deity 

Whose  throne  is  in  the  depth  of  human 
thought, 

1  do  adjure  thy  power  and  thee 

By  all  that  man  may  be,  by  all  that  he 
is  not, 
By  all  that  he  has  been  and  yet  must  be  ! 

FRAGMENT:  FALSE  LAURELS 
AND  TRUE. 

"What    art   thou,    Presumptuous,  who 
profanest 
The  wreath  to  mighty  poets  only  due, 


Even  whilst  like  a  forgotten  moon  thou 
wanest? 
Touch  not  those  leaves  which  for  the 
eternal  few 
Who  wander  o'er  the  paradise  of  fame, 

In  sacred  dedication  ever  grew : 
One   of   the   crowd   thou   art   without   a 
name." 
"Ah,  friend,  't  is  the  false  laurel  that 
I  wear; 
Bright  tho'  it  seem,  it  is  not  the  same 
As  that  which  bound  Milton's  immor- 
tal hair; 
Its  dew  is    poison    and  the   hopes   that 
quicken 
Under  its  chilling  shade,  tho'  seeming 
fair, 
Are  flowers  which  die  almost  before  they 
sicken." 


NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  1821,  BY 
MRS.  SHELLEY. 

My  task  becomes  inexpressibly  painful 
as  the  year  draws  near  that  which  sealed 
our  earthly  fate,  and  each  poem,  and  each 
event  it  records,  has  a  real  or  mysterious 
connection  with  the  fatal  catastrophe.  I 
feel  that  I  am  incapable  of  putting  on 
paper  the  history  of  those  times.  The 
heart  of  the  man,  abhorred  of  the  poet, 
who  could 

"  peep  and  botanise 
Upon  his  mother's  grave," 

does  not  appear  to  me  more  inexplicably 
framed  than  that  of  one  who  can  dissect 
and  probe  past  woes,  and  repeat  to  the 
public  ear  the  groans  drawn  from  them  in 
the  throes  of  their  agony. 

The  year  1821  was  spent  in  Tisa,  or  at 
the  Baths  of  San  Giuliano.  We  were  not, 
as  our  wont  had  been,  alone;  friends  had 
gathered  round  us.  Nearly  all  are  dead, 
and,  when  Memory  recurs  to  the  past,  she 
wanders  among  tombs.  The  genius,  with 
all  his  blighting  errors  and  mighty  powers; 
the  companion  of  Shelley's  ocean-wan- 
derings, and  the  sharer  of  his  fate,  than 
whom  no  man  ever  existed  more  gentle, 
generous,  and  fearless,  and  others,  who 
found  in  Shelley's  society,  and  in  his 
great   knowledge    and    warm    sympathy, 


NOTE    ON  POEMS   OF  182 1. 


585 


delight,  instruction,  and  solace;  have 
joined  him  beyond  the  grave.  A  few 
survive  who  have  felt  life  a  desert  since 
he  left  it.  What  misfortune  can  equal 
death?  Change  can  convert  every  other 
into  a  blessing,  or  heal  its  sting — death 
alone  has  no  cure.  It  shakes  the  foun- 
dations of  the  earth  on  which  we  tread; 
it  destroys  its  beauty;  it  casts  down  our 
shelter;  it  exposes  us  bare  to  desolation. 
When  those  we  love  have  passed  into 
eternity,  "life  is  the  desert  and  the  soli- 
tude "  in  which  we  are  forced  to  linger 
—  but  never  find  comfort  more. 

There  is  much  in  the  "Adonais  "  which 
seems  now  more  applicable  to  Shelley 
himself  than  to  the  young  and  gifted  poet 
whom  he  mourned.  The  poetic  view  he 
takes  of  death,  and  the  lofty  scorn  he 
displays  towards  his  calumniators,  are  as 
a  prophecy  on  his  own  destiny  when  re- 
ceived among  immortal  names,  and  the 
poisonous  breath  of  critics  has  vanished 
into  emptiness  before  the  fame  he  inherits. 

Shelley's  favorite  taste  was  boating; 
when  living  near  the  Thames  or  by  the 
Lake  of  Geneva,  much  of  his  life  was 
spent  on  the  water.  On  the  shore  of 
every  lake  or  stream  or  sea  near  which  he 
dwelt,  he  had  a  boat  moored.  He  had 
latterly  enjoyed  this  pleasure  again.  There 
are  no  pleasure-boats  on  the  Arno;  and 
the  shallowness  of  its  waters  (except  in 
winter-time,  when  the  stream  is  too  tur- 
bid and  impetuous  for  boating )  rendered 
it  difficult  to  get  any  skiff  light  enough 
to  float.  Shelley,  however,  overcame 
the  difficulty;  he,  together  with  a  friend, 
contrived  a  boat  such  as  the  huntsmen 
carry  about  with  them  in  the  Maremma, 
to  cross  the  sluggish  bat  deep  streams 
that  intersect  the  forests,  —  a  boat  of 
laths  and  pitched  canvas.  It  held  three 
persons;  and  he  was  often  seen  on  the 
Arno  in  it,  to  the  horror  of  the  Italians, 
who  remonstrated  on  the  danger,  and 
could  not  understand  how  any  one  could 
take  pleasure  in  an  exercise  that  risked 
life.  "Ma  va  per  la  vita!"  they  ex- 
claimed. I  little  thought  how  true  their 
words  would  prove.  He  once  ventured, 
with  a  friend,  on  the  glassy  sea  of  a  calm 
day,  down  the  Arno  and  round  the  coast 


to  Leghorn,  which,  by  keeping  close  in 
shore,  was  very  practicable.  They  re- 
turned to  Pisa  by  the  canal,  when,  miss- 
ing the  direct  cut,  they  got  entangled 
among  weeds,  and  the  boat  upset;  a  wet- 
ting was  all  the  harm  done,  except  that 
the  intense  cold  of  his  drenched  clothes 
made  Shelley  faint.  Once  I  went  down 
with  him  to  the  mouth  of  the  Arno, 
where  the  stream,  then  high  and  swift, 
met  the  tideless  sea,  and  disturbed  its 
sluggish  waters.  It  was  a  waste  and 
dreary  scene;  the  desert  sand  stretched 
I  into  a  point  surrounded  by  waves  that 
broke  icily  though  perpetually  around;  it 
was  a  scene  very  similar  to  Lido,  of  which 
he  had  said  — 

"  I  love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places;   where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be: 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows." 

Our  little  boat  was  of  greater  use,  un- 
accompanied by  any  danger,  when  we 
removed  to  the  Baths.  Some  friends 
lived  at  the  village  of  Pugnano,  four  miles 
off,  and  we  went  to  and  fro  to  see  them, 
in  our  boat,  by  the  canal;  which,  fed  by 
the  Serchio,  was,  though  an  artificial,  a 
full  and  picturesque  stream,  making  its 
way  under  verdant  banks,  sheltered  by 
trees  that  dipped  their  boughs  into  the 
murmuring  waters.  By  day,  multitudes 
of  ephemera  darted  to  and  fro  on  the 
surface;  at  night,  the  fireflies  came  out 
among  the  shrubs  on  the  banks;  the 
cicale  at  noonday  kept  up  their  hum;  the 
aziola  cooed  in  the  quiet  evening.  It  was 
a  pleasant  summer,  bright  in  all  but 
Shelley's  health  and  inconstant  spirits; 
yet  he  enjoyed  himself  greatly,  and  be- 
came more  and  more  attached  to  the  part 
of  the  country  where  chance  appeared  to 
cast  us.  Sometimes  he  projected  taking 
a  farm  situated  on  the  height  of  one  of 
the  near  hills,  surrounded  by  chestnut 
and  pine  woods,  and  overlooking  a  wide 
extent  of  country:  or  settling  still  farther 
in  the  maritime  Apennin'es,  at  Massa. 
Several  of  his  slighter  and  unfinished 
poems  were  inspired  by  these  scenes,  and 
by  the  companions  around  us.      It  is  the 


5S6 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


nature  of  that  poetry,  however,  which 
overflows  from  the  soul  oftener  to  express 
sorrow  and  regret  than  joy;  for  it  is  when 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  life,  and  away 
from  those  he  loves,  that  the  poet  has 
recourse  to  the  solace  of  expression  in 
verse. 

Still,  Shelley's  passion  was  the  ocean; 
and  he  wished  that  our  summers,  instead 
of  being  passed  among  the  hills  near 
Pisa,  should  be  spent  on  the  shores  of 
the  sea.  It  was  very  difficult  to  find  a 
spot.  We  shrank  from  Naples  from  a 
fear  that  the  heats  would  disagree  with 
Percy :  Leghorn  had  lost  its  only  attrac- 
tion, since  our  friends  who  had  resided 
there  had  returned  to  England,  and 
Monte  Nero  being  the  resort  of  many 
English,  we  did  not  wish  to  find  our- 
selves in  the  midst  of  a  colony  of  chance 
travellers.  No  one  then  thought  it  pos- 
sible to  reside  at  Via  Reggio,  which  lat- 
terly has  become  a  summer  resort.  The 
low  lands  and  bad  air  of  Maremma  stretch 
the  whole  length  of  the  western  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  till  broken  by  the 
rocks  and  hills  of  Spezia.  It  was  a 
vague  idea,  but  Shelley  suggested  an  ex- 
cursion to  Spezia,  to  see  whether  it  would 
be  feasible  to  spend  a  summer  there. 
The  beauty  of  the  bay  enchanted  him. 
We  saw  no  house  to  suit  us;  but  the 
notion  took  root,  and  many  circum- 
stances, enchained  as  by  fatality,  oc- 
curred to  urge  him  to  execute  it. 

He  looked  forward  this  autumn  with 
great  pleasure  to  the  prospect  of  a  visit 
from  Leigh  Hunt.  When  Shelley  vis- 
ited Lord  Byron  at  Ravenna,  the  latter 
had  suggested  his  coming  out,  together 
with  the  plan  of  a  periodical  work  in 
which  they  should  all  join.  Shelley  saw 
a  prospect  of  good  for  the  fortunes  of 
his  friend,  and  pleasure  in  his  society; 
and  instantly  exerted  himself  to  have 
the  plan  executed.  He  did  not  intend 
himself  joining  in  the  work:  partly  from 
pride,  not  wishing  to  have  the  air  of 
acquiring  readers  for  his  poetry  by  asso- 
ciating it  with  the  compositions  of  more 
popular  writers;  and  also  because  he 
might  feel  shackled  in  the  free  expres- 
sion of  his   opinions,  if  any  friends  were 


to  be  compromised.  By  those  opinions, 
carried  even  to  their  utmost  extent,  he 
wished  to  live  and  die,  as  being  in  his 
conviction  not  only  true,  but  such  as 
alone  would  conduce  to  the  moral  im- 
provement and  happiness  of  mankind. 
The  sale  of  the  work  might  meanwhile, 
either  really  or  supposedly,  be  injured 
by  the  free  expression  of  his  thoughts; 
and  this  evil  he  resolved  to  avoid. 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1822. 
THE   ZUCCA. 


Summer  was  dead  and  Autumn  was   ex- 
piring, 
And   infant   Winter   laught    upon    the 
land 
All  cloudlessly  and  cold  ; — when  I,  de- 
siring 
More   in  this  world   than   any   under- 
stand, 
Wept   o'er  the    beauty,   which   like    sea 
retiring, 
Had  left  the  earth  bare  as   the  wave- 
worn  sand 
Of  my  lorn  heart,  and  o'er  the  grass  and 

flowers 
Pale  for  the   falsehood  of  the  flattering 
Hours. 

11. 
Summer   was    dead,    but   I    yet    lived    to 
weep 
The  instability  of  all  but  weeping; 
And  on  the   Earth   lulled    in   her  winter 
sleep 
I  woke,   and   envied    her   as   she    was 
sleeping. 
Too   happy    Earth  !    over   thy   face  shall 
creep 
The  wakening  vernal   airs,  until  thou, 
leaping 
From  unremembered  dreams,  shalt  see 
No  death  divide  thy  immortality. 


I  loved  —  oh  no,  I  mean  not  one  of  ye, 
Or  any  earthly  one,  tho'  ye  are  dear 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


5S7 


As   human  heart    to    human    heart    may 

be;  — 
I   loved,  I  know  not   what  —  but    this 

low  sphere 
And   all   that  it  contains,    contains    not 

thee, 
Thou,    whom    seen     nowhere,    I    feel 

everywhere. 
From  heaven  and  earth,  and  all  that  in 

them  are, 
Veiled  art  thou,  like  a  star. 


By  Heaven   and  Earth,  from   all    whose 
shapes  thou  flowest, 
Neither  to  be  contained,  delayed,  nor 
hidden, 
Making  divine  the  loftiest  and  the  lowest, 
When  for  a  moment  thou  art   not    for- 
bidden 
To  live   within   the    life  which   thou   be- 
stow est; 
And  leaving  noblest  things  vacant  and 
chidden, 
Cold  as  a  corpse  after  the  spirit's  flight, 
Blank  as  the  sun  after  the  birth  of  night. 

V. 

In  winds,  and  trees,  and  streams,  and  all 
things  common, 
In  music   and    the   sweet    unconscious 
tone 
Of  animals,  and  voices  which  are  human, 
Meant  to  express  some  feelings  of  their 
own; 
In   the    soft   motions  and  rare    smile    of 
woman, 
In  flowers  and  leaves,  and  in  the  grass 
fresh-shown, 
Or  dying  in  the  autumn,  I  the  most 
Adore  thee  present  or  lament  thee  lost. 


And  thus  I  went  lamenting,  when  I  saw 

A  plant  upon  the  river's  margin  lie, 
Like  one  who  loved  beyond  his  nature's 
law, 
And  in  despair  had  cast  him  down  to 
die; 
Its  leaves  which  had  outlived   the   frost, 
the  thaw 


Had    blighted;     like    a    heart    which 

hatred's  eye 
Can  blast  not,  but  which  pity  kills;   the 

dew 
Lay  on  its  spotted  leaves  like   tears  too 

true. 

VII. 

The  Heavens  had  wept  upon  it,  but  the 
Earth 
Had    crusht    it    on    her    unmaternal 
breast. 


I  bore  it  to  my  chamber,  and  I  planted 

It  in  a  vase  full  of   the  lightest  mould; 
The  winter  beams  which  out  of   Heaven 
slanted 
Fell  thro'  the  window  panes,  disrobed 
of  cold, 
Upon    its   leaves   and    flowers  ;    the  star 
which  panted 
In  evening  for  the  Day,  whose  car  has 
rolled 
Over  the  horizon's   wave,  with   looks  of 

light 
Smiled  on   it   from   the   threshold  of  the 
night. 


The  mitigated  influences  of  air 

And  light  revived  the  plant,  and  from 
it  grew 
Strong  leaves  and  tendrils,  and  its  flow- 
ers fair, 
Full  as  a  cup  with  the   vine's  burning 
dew, 
O'erflowed   with  golden  colors;    an    at- 
mosphere 
Of  vital  warmth  infolded  it  anew, 
And  every  impulse  sent  to  every  part 
The  unbeheld  pulsations  of  its  heart. 


x. 

Well  might  the  plant  grow  beautiful  and 

strong, 
Even  if  the  air  and  sun  had  smiled  not 

on  it; 
For  one  wept  o'er  it  all  the  winter  long 


588 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  18: 


Tears  pure   as    Heaven's    rain,  which 
fell  upon  it 
Hour  after  hour;    for   sounds  of  softest 
song 
Mixt  with  the  stringed  melodies  that 
won  it 
To  leave  the  gentle  lips  on  which  it  slept, 
Had  loost  the  heart  of  him  who  sat  and 
wept. 


Had  loost  his  heart,  and  shook  the  leaves 
and  flowers 
On  which  he  wept,  the  while  the  sav- 
age storm 
Waked    by    the  darkest    of    December's 
hours 
Was  raving  round   the  chamber  husht 
and  warm; 
The  birds  were  shivering  in  their  leafless 
bowers, 
The  fish  were  frozen  in  the  pools,  the 
form 
Of  every  summer  plant  was  dead  .   .   . 
Whilst  this  .   .   . 


THE    MAGNETIC    LADY   TO   HER 
PATIENT. 


"  Sleep,  sleep  on  !   forget  thy  pain; 

My  hand  is  on  thy  brow, 
My  spirit  on  thy  brain; 
My  pity  on  thy  heart,  poor  friend; 

And  from  my  fingers  flow 
The  powers  of  life,  and  like  a  sign, 

Seal  thee  from  thine  hour  of   woe; 
And  brood  on  thee,  but  may  not  blend 
With  thine. 


"  Sleep,  sleep  on  !   I  love  thee  not; 

But  when  I  think  that  he 
Who  made  and  makes  my  lot 
As  full  of   flowers  as  thine  of  weeds, 

Might  have  been  lost  like  thee; 
And  that  a  hand  which  was  not  mine, 

Might  then  have  charmed  his  agony 
As  I  another's  —  my  heart  bleeds 
For  thine. 


"  Sleep,  sleep,  and  with  the  slumber  of 

The  dead  and  the  unborn 
Forget  thy  life  and  love; 
Forget  that  thou  must  wake  forever; 

Forget  the  world's  dull  scorn; 
Forget  lost  health,  and  the  divine 

Feelings  which  died  in   youth's  brief 
morn; 
And  forget  me,  for  I  can  never 
Be  thine. 


"  Like  a  cloud  big  with  a  May  shower, 

My  soul  weeps  healing  rain, 
On  thee,  thou  withered  flower; 
It  breathes  mute  music  on  thy  sleep; 

Its  odor  calms  thy  brain; 
Its  light  within  thy  gloomy  breast 

Spreads  like  a  second  youth  again. 
By  mine  thy  being  is  to  its  deep 
Possest. 


"  The  spell  is  done.   How  feel  you  now  ?  ': 
"  Better  —  Quite  well,"  replied 
The  sleeper.  —  "  What  would  do 

You  good  when  suffering  and  awake? 
What  cure  your  head  and  side?  —  " 

"  What  would  cure,  that  would  kill  me, 
Jane: 
And  as  I  must  on  earth  abide 

Awhile,  yet  tempt  me  not  to  break 
My  chain." 


LINES : 


'WHEN    THE 
SHATTERED.' 


LAMP    IS 


When  the  lamp  is  shattered 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  — 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 


As  music  and  splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


589 


The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute :  — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 


When  hearts  have  once  mingled 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest, 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

O  Love  !   who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For   your   cradle,  your   home,  and  your 
bier? 


Its  passions  will  rock  thee 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
W7hen  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


TO   JANE:    THE   INVITATION. 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away! 

Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 

Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 

Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 

To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 

In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 

The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring, 

Thro'  the  winter  wandering, 

Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 

To  hoar  February  born; 

Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 

It  kist  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 

And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free. 

And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 

And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 

And  like  a  prophetess  of   May 

Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 


Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 

To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs  — 

To  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 

Its  music  lest  it  should  not  find 

An  echo  in  another's  mind, 

While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 

Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

I  leave  this  notice  on  my  door 

For  each  accustomed  visitor :  — 

"  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 

To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields;  — 

Reflection,  you  may  come  to-morrow, 

Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow.  — 

You  with  the  unpaid  bill,  Despair, — 

You  tiresome  verse-reciter,  Care,  — 

I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave,  — 

Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 

Expectation  too,  be  off ! 

To-day  is  for  itself  enough; 

Hope  in  pity  mock  not  Woe 

With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go; 

Long  having  lived  on  thy  sweet  food, 

At  length  I  find  one  moment  's  good 

After  long  pain  —  with  all  your  love, 

This  you  never  told  me  of." 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !   arise  !   and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
And  the  pools  where  Winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun; 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be, 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea;  — 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers,  and  violets, 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue, 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 


590 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


TO   JANE:    THE   RECOLLECTION. 


Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 
Up  to  thy  wonted  work  !   come,  trace 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled,  — 

For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 

A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 


We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam, 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

The  smile  of   Heaven  lay; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 
Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise. 


We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath, 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own; 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep, 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 


How  calm  it  was  !  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 


There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste, 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced,  — 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life, 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife;  — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there, 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 


v. 


We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough, 
Each  seemed  as  't  were  a  little  sky 

Gulft  in  a  world  below; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 

And  purer  than  the  day  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there, 
There    lay    the    glade    and    neighboring 
lawn, 

And  thro'  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  clay  below. 
Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast, 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
Tho'  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  pence  in  Shelley's  mi-nd, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


59i 


CANCELLED    PASSAGE. 

Were  not  the  crocuses  that  grew 
Under  that  ilex-tree 

As  beautiful  in  scent  and  hue 
As  ever  fed  the  bee? 


WITH   A   GUITAR,    TO   JANE. 

Ariel  to  Miranda.  — Take 

This  slave  of   Music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee, 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till   joy  denies  itself  again, 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain; 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who, 

From  life  to  life,  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness;  —  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples,  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 

In  her  interlunar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity. 

Many  changes  have  been  run, 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  trackt   your   steps,  and  served  your 

will; 
Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 
This  is  all  remembered  not; 
And  now,  alas  !   the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his, 
In  a  body  like  a  grave;  — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 


For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rockt  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love;    and  so  this  tree, — 

O  that  such  our  death  may  be  !  — 

Died  in  sleep  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From    which,  beneath   Heaven's  fairest 

star, 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 
To  all  who  question  skilfully, 
In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 
Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 
For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of   the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of   falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 
And     pattering     rain,     and     breathing 

dew, 
And  airs  of  evening;    and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round 
As  it  floats  thro'  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions;    and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 
By  those  who  lempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day: 
But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  Jane  alone. 


592 


POEMS    WRITTEN  IN  1822. 


TO   JANE:    "THE   KEEN   STARS 
WERE   TWINKLING." 


The  keen  stars  were  twinkling, 
And  the    fair    moon   was    rising  among 
them, 
Dear  Jane  ! 
The  guitar  was  tinkling, 
But  the   notes  were   not   sweet  till  you 
sung  them 
Again. 


As  the  moon's  soft  splendor 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  your  voice  most  tender 
To    the    strings  without   soul    had    then 
given 
Its  own. 


The  stars  will  awaken, 
Tho'  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later, 
To-night; 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken 
Whilst  the  dews  of  your  melody  scatter 
Delight. 


Tho'  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  reveal- 
ing 

A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 


A   DIRGE. 

Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  'cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods,  whose  branches  stain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  BAY  OF 
LERICI. 

She  left  me  at  the  silent  time 

When  the  moon  had  ceast  to  climb 

The  azure  path  of  Heaven's  steep, 

And  like  an  albatross  asleep, 

Balanced  on  her  wings  of  light, 

Hovered  in  the  purple  night, 

Ere  she  sought  her  ocean  nest 

In  the  chambers  of  the  West. 

She  left  me,  and  I  stayed  alone 

Thinking  over  every  tone 

Which,  tho'  silent  to  the  ear, 

The  enchanted  heart  could  hear, 

Like    notes  which    die  when    born,   but 

still 
Haunt  the  echoes  of  the  hill; 
And  feeling  ever  —  oh,  too  much  !  — 
The  soft  vibration  of  her  touch, 
As  if  her  gentle  hand,  even  now, 
Lightly  trembled  on  my  brow; 
And  thus,  altho'  she  absent  were, 
Memory  gave  me  all  of  her 
That  even  Fancy  dares  to  claim:  — 
Her  presence  had  made  weak  and  tame 
All  passions,  and  I  lived  alone 
In  the  time  which  is  our  own; 
The  past  and  future  were  forgot, 
As  they  had  been,  and  would  be,  not. 
But  soon,  the  guardian  angel  gone, 
The  demon  reassumed  his  throne 
In  my  faint  heart.      I  dare  not  speak 
My  thoughts,  but  thus  disturbed  and  weal< 
I  sat  and  saw  the  vessels  glide 
Over  the  ocean  bright  and  wide, 
Like  spirit-winged  chariots  sent 
O'er  some  serenest  element 
For  ministrations  strange  and  far; 
As  if  to  some  Elysian  star 
Sailed  for  drink  to  medicine 
Such  sweet  and  bitter  pain  as  mine. 
And  the  wind  that  winged  their  flight 
From  the  land  came  fresh  and  light, 
And  the  scent  of  winged  flowers, 
And  the  coolness  of  the  hours 
Of  dew,  and  sweet  warmth  left  by  day. 
Were  scattered  o'er  the  twinkling  bay. 
And  the  fisher  with  his  lamp 
And  spear  about  the  low  rocks  damp 
Crept,  and  struck  the  fish  which  came 
To  worship  the  delusive  flame. 


NOTE    ON  POEMS   OF  1822. 


593 


Too  happy  they,  whose  pleasure  sought 
Extinguishes  all  sense  and  thought 
Of  the  regret  that  pleasure  leaves, 
Destroying  life  alone,  not  peace  ! 


LINES : 


WE  MEET  NOT  AS  WE 
PARTED." 


We  meet  not  as  we  parted, 

We  feel  more  than  all  may  see, 

My  bosom  is  heavy-hearted, 

And  thine  full  of  doubt  for  me. 
One  moment  has  bound  the  free. 


That  moment  is  gone  forever, 

Like  lightning  that  flasht  and  died, 

Like  a  snowflake  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  sunbeam  upon  the  tide, 
Which  the  dark  shadows  hide. 


That  moment  from  time  was  singled 
As  the  first  of  a  life  of  pain, 

The  cup  of  its  joy  was  mingled 
—  Delusion  too  sweet  tho'  vain  ! 
Too  sweet  to  be  mine  again. 


Sweet  lips,  could  my  heart  have  hidden 
That  its  life  was  crusht  by  you, 

Ye  would  not  have  then  forbidden 
The  death  which  a  heart  so  true 
Sought  in  your  briny  dew. 


Methinks  too  little  cost 

For  a  moment  so  found,  so  lost ! 


THE    ISLE. 

There  was  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet, 

Like  mosaic,  paven : 


And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves 
Which  the  summer's  breath  enweaves 
Where  nor  sun  nor  showers  nor  breeze 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees, 

Each  a  gem  engraven. 
Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the   clouds   and   mountains 
pave 

A  lake's  blue  chasm. 


FRAGMENT:    TO  THE   MOON. 

Bright     wanderer,     fair     coquette     of 

heaven, 
To  whom  alone  it  has  been  given 
To  change  and  be  adored  for  ever, 
Envy  not  this  dim  world,  for  never 
But  once  within  its  shadows  grew 
One  fair  as 

EPITAPH. 

These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were 
undivided; 

So  let  their  memory  be,  now  they  have 
glided 

Under  the  grave;  let  not  their  bones  be 
parted, 

For  their  two  hearts  in  life  were  single- 
hearted. 


NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1822, 
MRS.    SHELLEY. 

This  morn  thy  gallant  bark 
Sailed  on  a  sunny  sea  : 

'T  is  noon,  and  tempest  dark 
Have  wreckt  it  on  the  lee. 
Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! 

By  Spirits  of  the  deep 
Thou  'rt  cradled  on  the  billow 

To  thy  eternal  sleep. 

Thou  sleep'st  upon  the  shore 
Beside  the  knelling  surge, 

And  Sea-nymphs  evermore 
Shall  sadly  chant  thy  dirge. 

They  come,  they  come, 

The  Spirits  of  the  deep,  — 

While  near  thy  seaweed  pillow 

My  lonely  watch  I  keep. 

From  far  across  the  sea 
I  hear  a  loud  lament, 

By  Echo's  voice  for  thee 
From  ocean's  caverns  sent. 


B\' 


594 


NOTE    ON  POEM*   OF  1822. 


Oh  list !  oh  list ! 
The  Spirits  of  the  deep  ! 

They  raise  a  wail  of  sorrow, 
While  I  for  ever  weep. 

With  this  last  year  of  the  life  of  Shelley 
these  Notes  end.  They  are  not  what  I 
intended  them  to  be.  I  began  with  en- 
ergy, and  a  burning  desire  to  impart  to 
the  world,  in  worthy  language,  the  sense 
I  have  of  the  virtues  and  genius  of  the 
beloved  and  the  lost;  my  strength  has 
failed  under  the  task.  Recurrence  to  the 
past,  full  of  its  own  deep  and  unforgot- 
ten  joys  and  sorrows,  contrasted  with 
succeeding  years  of  painful  and  solitary 
struggle,  has  shaken  my  health.  Days 
of  great  suffering  have  followed  my  at- 
tempts to  write,  and  these  again  pro- 
duced a  weakness  and  languor  that  spread 
their  sinister  influence  over  these  Notes. 
I  dislike  speaking  of  myself,  but  cannot 
help  apologizing  to  the  dead,  and  to  the 
public,  for  not  having  executed  in  the 
manner  I  desired  the  history  I  engaged 
to  give  of  Shelley's  writings.1 

The  winter  of  1822  was  passed  in  Pisa, 
if  we  might  call  that  season  winter  in 
which  autumn  merged  into  spring  after 
the  interval  of  but  few  days  of  bleaker 
weather.  Spring  sprang  up  early,  and 
with  extreme  beauty.  Shelley  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  writing  a  tragedy  on 
the  subject  of  Charles  I.  It  was  one  that 
he  believed  adapted  for  a  drama;  full  of 
intense  interest,  contrasted  character,  and 
busy  passion.  He  had  recommended  it 
long  before,  when  he  encouraged  me  to 
attempt  a  play.  Whether  the  subject 
proved  more  difficult  than  he  anticipated, 
or  whether  in  fact  he  could  not  bend  his 


1  I  at  one  time  feared  that  the  correction  of 
the  press  might  be  loss  exact  through  my  illness; 
but  I  believe  that  it  is  nearly  free  from  error. 
Some  asterisks  occur  in  a  few  pages,  as  they  did 
in  the  volume  of  Posthumous  Prcvts,  either  be- 
cause they  refer  to  private  concerns,  or  because 
the  original  manuscript  was  left  imperfect.  Did 
any  one  see  the  papers  from  which  I  drew  that 
volume,  the  wonder  would  be  how  any  eyes  or 
patience  were  capable  of  extracting  it  from  so 
confused  a  mass,  interlined  and  broken  into 
fragments,  so  that  the  sense  could  only  be  deci- 
phered and  joined  by  guesses  which  might  seem 
rather  intuitive  than  founded  on  reasoning.  Vet 
I  believe  no  mistake  was  made. 


mind  away  from  the  broodings  and  wan- 
derings of  thought,  divested  from  human 
interest,  which  he  best  loved,  I  cannot 
tell;  but  he  proceeded  slowly,  and  threw 
it  aside  for  one  of  the  most  mystical  of 
his  poems,  the  "Triumph  of  Life,"  on 
which  he  was  employed  at  the  last. 

His  passion  for  boating  was  fostered  at 
this  time  by  having  among  our  friends 
several  sailors.  His  favorite  companion, 
Edward  Ellerker  Williams,  of  the  8th 
Light  Dragoons,  had  begun  his  life  in  the 
navy,  and  had  afterwards  entered  the 
army;  he  had  spent  several  years  in  India, 
and  his  love  for  adventure  and  manly 
exercises  accorded  with  Shelley's  taste. 
It  was  their  favorite  plan  to  build  a  boat 
such  as  they  could  manage  themselves, 
and,  living  on  the  sea-coast,  to  enjoy  at 
every  hour  and  season  the  pleasure  they 
loved  best.  Captain  Roberts,  R.N.,  un- 
dertook to  build  the  boat  at  Genoa,  where 
he  was  also  occupied  in  building  the 
Bolivar  for  Lord  Byron.  Ours  was  to 
be  an  open  boat,  on  a  model  taken  from 
one  of  the  royal  dockyards.  I  have  since 
heard  that  there  was  a  defect  in  this 
model,  and  that  it  was  never  seaworthy. 
In  the  month  of  February,  Shelley  and 
his  friend  went  to  Spezia  to  seek  for 
houses  for  us.  Only  one  was  to  be  found 
at  all  suitable;  however,  a  trifle  such  as 
not  finding  a  house  could  not  stop  Shel- 
ley; the  one  found  was  to  serve  for  all. 
It  was  unfurnished;  we  sent  our  furniture 
by  sea,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  precipi- 
tation, arising  from  his  impatience,  made 
our  removal.  We  left  Pisa  on  the  26th 
of  April. 

The  P>ay  of  Spezia  is  of  considerable 
extent,  and  divided  by  a  rocky  promon- 
tory into  a  larger  and  smaller  one.  The 
town  of  Lerici  is  situated  on  the  eastern 
point,  and  in  the  depth  of  the  smaller 
bay,  which  bears  the  name  of  this  town, 
is  the  village  of  San  Terenzo.  Our  house, 
Casa  Magni,  was  close  to  this  village;  the 
sea  came  up  to  the  door,  a  steep  hill  shel- 
tered it  behind.  The  proprietor  of  the 
estate  on  which  it  was  situated  was  in- 
sane; he  had  begun  to  erect  a  large  house 
at  the  summit  of  the  hill  behind,  but  his 
malady  prevented  its  being  finished,  and 


NOTE    ON  POEMS   OF   1822. 


595 


it  was  falling  into  ruin.  He  had  (and 
this  to  the  Italians  had  seemed  a  glaring 
symptom  of  very  decided  madness)  rooted 
up  the  olives  on  the  hillside,  and  planted 
forest  trees.  These  were  mostly  young, 
but  the  plantation  was  more  in  English 
taste  than  I  ever  elsewhere  saw  in  Italy; 
some  fine  walnut  and  ilex  trees  inter- 
mingled their  dark  massy  foliage,  and 
formed  groups  which  still  haunt  my  mem- 
ory, as  then  they  satiated  the  eye  with  a 
sense  of  loveliness.  The  scene  was  in- 
deed of  unimaginable  beauty.  The  blue 
extent  of  waters,  the  almost  landlocked 
bay,  the  near  castle  of  Lerici  shutting  it 
in  to  the  east,  and  distant  Porto  Venere 
to  the  west;  the  varied  forms  of  the  pre- 
cipitous rocks  that  bound  in  the  beach, 
over  which  there  was  only  a  winding 
rugged  footpath  towards  Lerici,  and 
none  on  the  other  side;  the  tideless 
sea  leaving  no  sands  nor  shingle, 
formed  a  picture  such  as  one  sees  in 
Salvator  Rosa's  landscapes  only.  Some-  1 
times  the  sunshine  vanished  when  the 
sirocco  raged  —  the  "  ponente  "  the  wind 
was  called  on  that  shore.  The  gales  and 
squalls  that  hailed  our  first  arrival  sur- 
rounded the  bay  with  foam  ;  the  howl- 
ing wind  swept  round  our  exposed  house,  i 
and  the  sea  roared  unremittingly,  so  that 
we  almost  fancied  ourselves  on  board 
ship.  At  other  times  sunshine  and  calm 
invested  sea  and  sky,  and  the  rich  tints 
of  Italian  heaven  bathed  the  scene  in 
bright  and  ever-varying  tints. 

The  natives  were  wilder  than  the  place.   ; 
Our  near  neighbors  of  San  Terenzo  were  ! 
more  like  savages  than  any  people  I  ever 
before  lived  among.      Many  a  night  they 
passed  on  the  beach,  singing,  or  rather  \ 
howling;     the     women     dancing     about   ! 
among  the  waves  that  broke  at  their  feet,   i 
the   men   leaning  against   the  rocks   and 
joining  in   their   loud  wild   chorus.      We  I 
could  get  no  provisions  nearer  than  Sar-  j 
zana,  at  a  distance   of  three  miles  and  a  j 
half  off,  with  the  torrent   of  the   Magra  ; 
between;    and  even  there  the  supply  was 
eery  deficient.      Had   we   been   wrecked 
on  an  island  of  the  South  Seas,  we  could 
scarcely  have  felt  ourselves  farther  from 
civilization  and  comfort;   but,  where  the  i 


sun  shines  the  latter  becomes  an  unneces- 
sary luxury,  and  we  had  enough  society 
among  ourselves.  Yet  I  confess  house- 
keeping became  rather  a  toilsome  task, 
especially  as  I  was  suffering  in  my  health, 
and  could  not  exert  myself  actively. 

At  first  the  fatal  boat  had  not  arrived, 
and  was  expected  with  great  impa- 
tience. On  Monday,  12th  of  May, 
it  came.  Williams  records  the  long- 
wished-for  fact  in  his  journal:  "Cloudy 
and  threatening  weather.  M.  Maglian 
called;  and  after  dinner,  and  while  walk- 
ing with  him  on  the  terrace,  we  discov- 
ered a  strange  sail  coming  round  the 
point  of  Porto  Venere,  which  proved  at 
length  to  be  Shelley's  boat.  She  had 
left  Genoa  on  Thursday  last,  but  had 
been  driven  back  by  the  prevailing  bad 
winds.  A  Mr.  Heslop  and  two  English 
seamen  brought  her  round,  and  they 
speak  most  highly  of  her  performances. 
She  does  indeed  excite  my  surprise  and 
admiration.  Shelley  and  I  walked  to 
Lerici,  and  made  a  stretch  off  the  land 
to  try  her  :  and  I  find  she  fetches  whatever 
she  looks  at.  In  short,  we  have  now  a 
perfect  plaything  for  the  summer." — ■ 
It  was  thus  that  short-sighted  mortals 
welcomed  Death,  he  having  disguised 
his  grim  form  in  a  pleasing  mask  !  The 
time  of  the  friends  was  now  spent  on  the 
sea:  the  weather  became  fine,  and  our 
whole  party  often  passed  the  evenings 
on  the  water  when  the  wind  promised 
pleasant  sailing.  Shelley  and  Williams 
made  longer  excursions:  they  sailed  sev- 
eral times  to  Massa.  They  had  engaged 
one  of  the  seamen  who  brought  her 
round,  a  boy,  by  name  Charles  Vivian; 
and  they  had  not  the  slightest  apprehen- 
sion of  danger.  When  the  weather  was 
unfavorable,  they  employed  themselves 
with  alterations  in  the  rigging,  and  by 
building  a  boat  of  canvas  and  reeds,  as 
light  as  possible,  to  have  on  board  the 
other  for  the  convenience  of  landing  in 
waters  too  shallow  for  the  larger  vessel. 
When  Shelley  was  on  board,  he  had  his 
papers  with  him;  and  much  of  the  "Tri- 
umph of  Life  "  was  written  as  he  sailed  or 
weltered  on  that  sea  which  was  soon  to 
engulf  him. 


596 


NOTE   ON  POEMS  OF  1822. 


The  heats  set  in  in  the  middle  of  June; 
the  days  became  excessively  hot.  But 
the  sea-breeze  cooled  the  an  at  noon, 
and  extreme  heat  always  put  Shelley  in 
spirits.  A  long  drought  had  preceded 
the  heat ;  and  prayers  for  rain  were  being 
put  up  in  the  churches,  and  processions 
of  relics  for  the  same  effect  took  place  in 
every  town.  At  this  time  we  received 
letters  announcing  the  arrival  of  Leigh 
Hunt  at  Genoa.  Shelley  was  very  eager 
to  see  him.  I  was  confined  to  my  room 
by  severe  illness,  and  could  not  move; 
it  was  agreed  that  Shelley  and  Williams 
should  go  to  Leghorn  in  the  boat. 
Strange  that  no  fear  of  danger  crossed 
our  minds !  Living  on  the  sea-shore, 
the  ocean  became  as  a  plaything :  as  a 
child  may  sport  with  a  lighted  stick,  till 
a  spark  inflames  a  forest,  and  spreads 
destruction  over  all,  so  did  we  fearlessly 
and  blindly  tamper  with  danger,  and 
make  a  game  of  the  terrors  of  the  ocean. 
Our  Italian  neighbors,  even,  trusted 
themselves  as  far  as  Massa  in  the  skiff; 
and  the  running  down  the  line  of  coast 
to  Leghorn  gave  no  more  notion  of  peril 
than  a  fair-weather  inland  navigation 
would  have  done  to  those  who  had 
never  seen  the  sea.  Once,  some  months 
before,  Trelawny  had  raised  a  warning 
voice  as  to  the  difference  of  our  calm  bay 
and  the  open  sea  beyond;  but  Shelley 
and  his  friends,  with  their  one  sailor-boy, 
thought  themselves  a  match  for  the  storms 
of  the  Mediterranean,  in  a  boat  which 
they  looked  upon  as  equal  to  all  it  was 
put  to  do. 

On  the  1st  of  July  they  left  us.  If 
ever  shadow  of  future  ill  darkened  the 
present  hour,  such  was  over  my  mind 
when  they  went.  During  the  whole  of 
our  stay  at  Lerici,  an  intense  presenti- 
ment of  coming  evil  brooded  over  my 
mind,  and  covered  this  beautiful  place 
and  genial  summer  with  the  shadow  of 
coming  misery.  I  had  vainly  struggled 
with  these  emotions  —  they  seemed  ac- 
counted for  by  my  illness;  but  at  this 
hour  of  separation  they  recurred  with  re- 
newed violence.  I  did  not  anticipate 
danger  for  them,  but  a  vague  expectation 
of  evil  shook  me  to  agony,  and  I  could 


scarcely  bring  myself  to  let  them  go. 
The  day  was  calm  and  clear;  and,  a  fine 
breeze  rising  at  twelve,  they  weighed 
for  Leghorn.  They  made  the  run  of 
about  fifty  miles  in  seven  hours  and  a 
half.  The  Bolivar  was  in  port;  and,  the 
regulations  of  the  Health-office  not  per- 
mitting them  to  go  on  shore  after  sunset, 
they  borrowed  cushions  from  the  larger 
vessel,  and  slept  on  board  their  boat. 

They  spent  a  week  at  Pisa  and  Leghorn. 
The  want  of  rain  was  severely  felt  in  the 
country.  The  weather  continued  sultry 
and  fine.  I  have  heard  that  Shelley  all 
this  time  was  in  brilliant  spirits.  Not 
long  before,  talking  of  presentiment,  he 
had  said  the  only  one  that  he  ever  found 
infallible  was  the  certain  advent  of  some 
evil  fortune  when  he  felt  peculiarly  joyous. 
Yet,  if  ever  fate  whispered  of  coming 
disaster,  such  inaudible  but  not  unfelt 
prognostics  hovered  around  us.  The 
beauty  of  the  place  seemed  unearthly  in 
its  excess:  the  distance  we  were  at  from 
all  signs  of  civilization,  the  sea  at  our  feet, 
its  murmurs  or  its  roaring  forever  in  our 
ears,  —  all  these  things  led  the  mind  to 
brood  over  strange  thoughts,  and,  lifting 
it  from  everyday  life,  caused  it  to  be 
familiar  with  the  unreal.  A  sort  of  spell 
surrounded  us;  and  each  day,  as  the 
voyagers  did  not  return,  we  grew  restless 
and  disquieted,  and  yet,  strange  to  say, 
we  were  not  fearful  of  the  most  apparent 
danger. 

The  spell  snapped,  it  was  all  over;  an 
interval  of  agonizing  doubt  —  of  days 
passed  in  miserable  journeys  to  gain  tid- 
ings, of  hopes  that  took  firmer  root  even 
as  they  were  more  baseless  —  was  changed 
to  the  certainty  of  the  death  that  eclipsed 
all  happiness  for  the  survivors  for  ever- 
more. 

There  was  something  in  our  fate  pecu- 
liarly harrowing.  The  remains  of  those 
we  lost  were  cast  on  shore;  but,  by  the 
quarantine-laws  of  the  coast,  we  were  not 
permitted  to  have  possession  of  them  — 
the  law  with  respect  to  everything  cast  on 
land  by  the  sea  being  that  such  should  be 
burned,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  any 
remnant  bringing  the  plague  into  Italy; 
and  no  representation  could  alter  the  law. 


NOTE   ON  POEMS   OE  1822. 


597 


At  length,  through  the  kind  and  un- 
wearied exertions  of  Mr.  Dawkins,  our 
Charge  d'Affairesat  Florence,  we  gained 
permission  to  receive  the  ashes  after  the 
bodies  were  consumed.  Nothing  could 
equal  the  zeal  of  Trelawny  in  carrying 
our  wishes  into  effect.  lie  was  inde- 
fatigable in  his  exertions,  and  full  of 
forethought  and  sagacity  in  his  arrange- 
ments. It  was  a  fearful  task;  he  stood 
before  us  at  last,  his  hands  scorched  and 
blistered  by  the  flames  of  the  funeral- 
pyre,  and  by  touching  the  burnt  relics  as 
he  placed  them  in  the  receptacles  pre- 
pared for  the  purpose.  And  there,  in 
compass  of  that  small  case,  was  gathered 
all  that  remained  on  earth  of  him  whose 
genius  and  virtue  were  a  crown  of  glory 
to  the  world  — whose  love  had  been  the 
source  of  happiness,  peace,  and  good, — 
to  be  buried  with  him  ! 

The  concluding  stanzas  of  the  "  Ado- 
nais  ''  pointed  out  where  the  remains 
ought  to  be  deposited;  in  addition  to 
which  our  beloved  child  lay  buried  in 
the  cemetery  at  Rome.  Thither  Shelley's 
ashes  were  conveyed;  and  they  rest  be- 
neath one  of  the  antique  weed-grown 
towers  that  recur  at  intervals  in  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  massy  ancient  wall  of  Rome. 
He  selected  the  hallowed  place  himself; 
there  is 

"  the  sepulchre, 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  !  — 


"  And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull 

Time 

Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand  , 

And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 

Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 

This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 

Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and  beneath 

A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitcht  in  heaven's  smile   their   camp  of 

death. 
Welcoming    him    we   lose   with   scarce    extin- 
guish! breath." 


Could  sorrow  for  the  lost,  and  shudder- 
ing anguish  at  the  vacancy  left  behind, 
be  soothed  by  poetic  imaginations,  there 
was  something  in  Shelley's  fate  to  miti- 


j   gate  pangs  which  yet,  alas!   could  not  be 
so  mitigated;    for  hard  reality  brings  too 
miserably  home  to  the  mourner  all  that  is 
lost  of  happiness,  all  of  lonely  unsolaced 
struggle     that     remains.       Still,     though 
dreams  and  hues  of  poetry  cannot   blunt 
grief,  it   invests   his  fate  with  a  sublime 
fitness,  which  those  less  nearly  allied  may 
j   regard  with  complacency.     A  year  before 
he  had  poured  into  verse  all  such  ideas 
J  about  death  as  give  it  a  glory  of  its  own. 
He  had,  as  it  now  seems,  almost  antici- 
pated his  own  destiny;    and,   when  the 
mind  figures  his  skiff  wrapped  from  sight 
by  the  thunder-storm,  as  it  was  last  seen 
upon   the  purple  sea,   and  then,  as  the 
i   cloud  of   the   tempest  passed  away,   no 
j   sign  remained  of  where  it  had  been  x  — 
j   who  but  will  regard  as  a  prophecy  the 
\  last  stanza  of  the  "  Adonais"? 

"The  breath  whose  might    I   have  invoked   in 
song 
Descends  on  me  ,  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far   from  the  shore,  far   from    the   trembling 
throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given  ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  nven  ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar! 
Whilst,    burning    thro'    the   inmost    veil    of 
heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are  " 
Putney,  May  1,  1839. 


1  Captain  Roberts  watched  the  vessel  with  his 
glass  from  the  top  of  the  lighthouse  of  Leghorn, 
on  its  homeward  track.  They  were  off  Via 
Keggio,  at  some  distance  from  shore,  when  a 
storm  was  driven  over  the  sea.  It  enveloped 
them  and  several  larger  vessels  in  darkness. 
When  the  cloud  passed  onwards,  Roberts  looked 
again,  and  saw  every  other  vessel  sailing  on  the 
ocean  except  their  little  schooner,  which  had 
vanished  From  that  time  he  could  scarcely 
doubt  the  fatal  truth  ;  yet  we  fancied  that  they 
might  have  been  driven  towards  Elba  or  Corsica, 
and  so  be  saved.  The  observation  made  as  to 
the  spot  where  the  boat  disappeared  caused  it 
to  be  found,  through  the  exertions  of  Trelawny  for 
that   effect.     It  had  gone  down   in    ten    fathom 

j  water,  it  had  not  capsized,  and,  except  such 
things  as  had  floated  from  her,  everything  was 

i  found  on  board  exactly  as  it  had  been  placed 
when  they  sailed  The  boat  itself  was  unin- 
jured.    Roberts    possessed    himself    of    her,  and 

!    decked  her;  but  she  proved  not  seaworthy,  and 

j  her  shattered  planks  now  lie  rotting  on  the  shore 
of  one  of  the   Ionian  islands,  on  which  she  was 

I    wrtcked. 


598 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 
HYMN  TO  MERCURY. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    GREEK   OF 
HOMER. 


Sing,    Muse,    the   son    of    Maia  and   of 
Jove, 
The  Herald-child,  king  of  Arcadia 
And  all  its  pastoral  hills,  whom  in  sweet 
love 
Having  been  interwoven,  modest  May 
Bore  Heaven's  dread  Supreme  —  an  an- 
tique grove 
Shadowed  the  cavern  where  the  lovers 
lay 
In  the  deep  night,  unseen  by  Gods   or 

Men, 
And  white-armed  Juno  slumbered  sweet- 
ly then. 

II. 

Now,  when  the  joy  of  Jove  had  its  ful- 
filling, 
And  Heaven's  tenth  moon  chronicled 
her  relief, 
She  gave  to  light  a  babe  all  babes  excel- 
ling* 
A  schemer  subtle  beyond  all  belief; 
A  shepherd  of  thin  dreams,  a  cow-steal- 
ing, 
A  night-watching,  and  door-waylaying 
thief, 
Who  'mongst  the  Gods  was  soon  about 

to  thieve, 
And  other  glorious  actions  to  achieve. 


The  babe  was  born  at  the  first  peep  of 
day; 
He  began  playing  on  the  lyre  at  noon, 
And  the  same  evening  did  he  steal  away 
Apollo's   herds;— the    fourth    day  of 
the  moon 
On  which  him  bore  the  venerable  May, 
From    her     immortal   limbs   he     leapt 
full  soon, 
Nor  long  could  in  the  sacred  cradle  keep, 
But   out   to    seek    Apollo's    herds  would 
creep. 


Out  of  the  lofty  cavern  wandering 

He  found  a  tortoise,  and  cried  out— < 
"  A  treasure !  " 
(For    Mercury    first    made    the    tortoise 
sing) 
The   beast    before    the    portal    at    his 
leisure 
The  flowery  herbage  was  depasturing, 

Moving  his  feet  in  a  deliberate  measure 
Over  the  turf.     Jove's  profitable  son 
Eyeing  him  laught,   and  laughing    thus 
begun: — 


"A  useful  god-send  are  you  to  me  now, 
King  of  the  dance,  companion  of  the 

feast, 
Lovely  in  all  your  nature  !     Welcome, 

you 
Excellent     plaything !      Where,      sweet 

mountain  beast, 
Got    you     that    speckled    shell?     Thus 

much  I  know, 
You  must  come  home  with  me  and  be 

my  guest; 
You  will  give  joy  to  me,  and  I  will  do 
All  that  is  in  my  power  to  honor  you. 


"  Better  to  bent  home  than  out  of  door;  — 
So  come  with  me,  and  tho'  it  has  been 
said 
That  you  alive  defend  from  magic  power, 
I    know    you   will  sing   sweetly  when 
you  're  dead." 
Thus  having  spoken,   the  quaint  infant 
bore, 
Lifting  it  "from  the  grass  on  which  it 
fed, 
And  grasping  it  in  his  delighted  hold, 
His  treasured  prize  into  the  cavern  old. 


Then  scooping  with  a  chisel  of  gray  steel, 
He  bored  the  life  and  soul  out  of  the 
beast  — 
Not  swifter  a  swift  thought    of  woe    or 
weal 
Darts   thro'    the    tumult    of  a    human 
breast 


HOMER'S  HYMN   TO  MERCURY, 


599 


Which     thronging     cares     annoy  —  not 

swifter  wheel 

The  flashes  of  its  torture  and  unrest 

Out  of  the  dizzy  eyes- — than  Maia's  son 

All  that  he  did  devise  hath  featly  done. 


And    thro'  the    tortoise's    hard    stony 
skin 
At  proper  distances  small  holes  he  made, 
And   fastened  the  cut  stems  of  reeds 
within, 
And  with  a  piece  of  leather  overlaid 

The  open  space  and  fixt  the  cubits  in, 
Fitting  the  bridge  to   both,    and   stretcht 

o'er  all 
Symphonious  cords  of  sheep-gut  rhyth- 
mical. 

IX. 

When  he  had  wrought  the  lovely  instru- 
ment, 
He  tried  the  chords,  and  made  division 
meet 
Preluding  with   the   plectrum,  and  there 
went 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand    a   tumult 
sweet 
Of  mighty  sounds,  and  from   his  lips  he 
sent 
A  strain  of  unpremeditated  wit 
Joyous  and  wild  and  wanton  —  such  you 

may 
Hear  among  revellers  on  a  holiday. 


He  sung  how  Jove  and  May  of  the  bright 
sandal 
Dallied  in  love  not  quite  legitimate; 
And  his  own   birth,  still   scoffing  at   the 
scandal, 
And  naming  his  own   name,  did  cele- 
brate; 
His  mother's  cave  and  servant  maids  he 
planned  all 
In   plastic  verse,    her   household   stuff 
and  state, 
Perennial  pot,  trippet,  and  brazen  pan,  — 
But  singing,  he  conceived  another  plan. 


Seized  with  a  sudden  fancy  for  fresh 
meat, 


He  in  his  sacred  crib  deposited 

The  hollow  lyre,  and  from  the  cavern 
sweet 
Rusht  with  great  leaps  up  to  the   moun- 
tain's head, 
Revolving  in  his  mind  some  subtle  feat 
Of    thievish    craft,    such    as    a    swindler 

might 
Devise  in  the  lone  season  of  dun  night. 


Lo !  the  great    Sun    under    the    ocean's 
bed  has 
Driven  steeds  and  chariot  —  The  child 
meanwhile  strode 
O'er  the   Pierian   mountains    clothed    in 
shadows, 
Where  the  immortal  oxen  of  the  God 
Are  pastured  in  the  flowering  unmown 
meadows, 
And  safely  stalled  in  a  remote  abode  — 
The  archer  Argicide,  elate  and  proud, 
Drove  fifty  from  the  herd,  low  ing  aloud. 

XIII. 

He  drove  them  wandering  o'er  the  sandy 
way, 
But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft, 
Backward   and  forward   drove  he    them 
astray, 
So  that  the  tracks  which  seemed  be- 
fore, were  aft; 
His   sandals   then  he  threw  to  the  ocean 
spray, 
And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind 
of  raft 
Of  tamarisk,  and  tamarisk-like  sprigs, 
And  bound  them  in  a  lump  with  withy 
twigs. 

XIV. 

And  on  his  feet  he  tied  these  sandals 
light, 
The  trail  of  whose  wide  leaves  might  not 
betray 
His  track;    and   then,  a  self-sufficing 
wight, 
Like  a  man  hastening   on   some  distant 
way, 
He   from   Pieria's   mountain   bent    his 
flight; 
Rut  an  old  man  perceived  the  infant  pass 
Down  green  Onchestus  heapt   like  beds 
with  grass. 


6oo 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


The  old  man  stood  dressing    his    sunny 
vine : 
"  Halloo  !   old  fellow  with  the  crooked 
shoulder  ! 
You  grub  those  stumps?  before  they  will 
bear  wine 
Methinks  even  you  must  grow  a  little 
older : 
Attend,  I  pray,  to  this  advice  of  mine, 
As  you  would  'scape  what  might  appal 
a  bolder  — 
Seeing,  see  not  —  and  hearing,  hear  not 

—  and  — 
If  you  have  understanding — understand. ' ' 


So  saying,  Hermes  roused  the  oxen  vast; 
O'er  shadowy  mountain  and  resounding 
dell, 
And  flower-paven  plains,  great  Hermes 
past; 
Till  the  black  night  divine,  which  fav- 
oring fell 
Around  his  steps,  grew  gray,  and  morn- 
ing fast 
Wakened  the  world  to  work,  and  from 
her  cell 
Sea-strewn,    the   Pallantean   Moon   sub- 
lime 
.Into  her  watch-tower  just  began  to  climb. 


Now  to  Alpheus  he  had  driven  all 

The    broad-foreheaded    oxen    of    the 
Sun; 
They  came  unwearied  to  the  lofty  stall 
And  to  the  water  troughs  which  ever   \ 
run 
Thro'  the  fresh  fields  —  and  when  with   [ 
rushgrass  tall, 
Lotus    and    all    sweet    herbage,  every   j 
one 
Had  pastured  been,  the  great  God  made 

them  move 
Towards  the  stall  in  a  collected  drove. 


A  mighty  pile  of    wood    the    God    then 
heapt, 


And  having  soon  conceived  the 
tery 


mys- 


Of  fire,  from  two  smooth  laurel  branches 
stript 
The  bark,    and    rubbed    them    in    his 
palms,  —  on  high 
Suddenly  forth  the  burning  vapor  leapt, 
And  the  divine  child  saw  delightedly  — • 
Mercury  first  found  out  for  human  weal 
Tinder-box,  matches,  fire-irons,  flint  and 
steel. 


And  fine  dry  logs  and  roots  innumerous 
He    gathered    in    a   delve    upon    the 
ground  — 
And  kindled  them  —  and  instantaneous 
The  strength  of  the  fierce    flame  was 
breathed  around : 
And  whilst  the  might  of  glorious  Vulcan 
thus 
Wrapt  the  great  pile  with  glare  and 
roaring  sound, 
Hermes  dragged  forth  two  heifers,  low- 
ing loud, 
Close  to  the  fire  —  such  might  was  in  the 
God. 

XX. 

And  on  the  earth  upon  their   backs  he 

threw 
The  panting  beasts,  and   rolled   them 

o'er  and  o'er, 
And   bored     their    lives    out.     Without 

more    ado 
He  cut  up  fat  and  flesh,  and  down  be- 
fore 
The  fire,  on  spits  of  wood  he  placed  the 

two, 
Toasting  their  flesh  and  ribs,  and  all 

the  gore 
Purst  in  the  bowels;  and  while  this  was 

done 
He  stretcht  their    hides    over    a    craggy 

stone. 


We  mortals  let  an  ox  grow  old,  and  then 
Cut  it  up  after  long  consideration,  — 

But  joyous-minded  Hermes  from  the  glen 
Drew  the  fat  spoils  to  the  more  open 
station 


HOMER'S   HYMN    TO   MERCURY. 


ooi 


Of  a   flat   smooth   space,   and   portioned 

them;    and  when 
He    had    by  lot    assigned    to    each    a 

ration 
Of  the  twelve  Gods,  his  mind    became 

aware 
Of  all  the  joys  which  in  religion  are. 

XXII. 

For  the  sweet  savor  of  the  roasted  meat 
Tempted  him  tho'  immortal.    Natheles 
He  checkt  his  haughty  will  and  did  not 
eat, 
Tho'    what    it    cost    him    words    can 
scarce    express, 
And    every    wish    to    put    such    morsels 
sweet 
Down  his  most  sacred  throat,  he  did 
repress; 
But  soon  within  the  lofty  portalled  stall 
He  placed  the  fat  and  flesh  and  bones 
and  all. 

XXIII. 

And  every  trace  of  the  fresh  butchery 
And  cooking,  the  God  soon  made  dis- 
appear, 
As  if  it  all  had  vanisht  thro'  the  sky; 
He  burned   the   hoofs  and   horns   and 
head  and  hair, 
The  insatiate    fire    devoured  them   hun- 
grily;— 
And  when  he  saw  that  everything  was 
clear, 
He  quencht  the  coals,  and  trampled  the 

black  dust, 
And  in  the    stream    his    bloody  sandals 
tost. 

XXIV. 

All  night  he  workt  in   the  serene  moon- 
shine — 
But  when  the  light   of  day  was   spread 
abroad 
He    sought     his    natal    mountain-peaks 
divine. 
On   his   long  wandering,    neither   man 
nor  god 
Had  met   him,  since   he   killed   Apollo's 
kine, 
Nor  house-dog  had  barkt  at  him  on  his 
road; 


Now  he  obliquely  thro'  the  keyhole  past, 
Like  a  thin  mist,  or  an  autumnal  blast. 


Right  thro'  the  temple  of  the  spacious  cave 
lie  went  with  soft  light  feet  —  as  if  his 
tread 
Fell  not  on  earth;  no  sound  their  falling 
gave ; 
Then  to  his  cradle  he  crept  quick,  and 
spread 
The    swaddling-clothes    about  him;    and 
the  knave 
Lay  playing  with  the  covering  of  the 
bed 
With  his  left  hand  about  his  knees  —  the 

right 
Held  his  beloved  tortoise-lyre  tight. 

XXVI. 

There  he   lay,  innocent   as   a    new-born 
child/ 
As  gossips  say;  but  tho'  he  was  a  god, 
The  goddess,  his  fair  mother,  unbeguiled 
Knew    all    that    he    had    done    being 
abroad: 
"  Whence    come   you,    and    from    what 
adventure  wild, 
You   cunning   rogue,  and  where   have 
you  abode 
All  the   long  night,  clothed  in   your  im- 
pudence? 
What  have  you  done  since  you  departed 
hence?  , 

XXVII. 

I    "  Apollo  soon  will  pass  within  this  gate 
And  bind  your  tender  body  in  a  chain 
Inextricably  tight,  and  fast  as  fate, 

Unless  you  can  delude  the  God  again, 
Even  when  within   his  arms  —  ah,  runa- 
gate ! 
A  pretty  torment  both  for  gods  and  men 
Your  father  made  when  he  made  you!  " 

—  "  Dear  mother," 
Replied   sly  Hermes,  "  Wherefore   scold 
and  bother? 


As  if  I  were  like  other  babes  as  old, 
And  understood   nothing    of    what    is 
what ; 


002 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And    cared    at    all    to    hear    my  mother 
scold. 
I  in  my  subtle  brain  a  scheme   have 

got> 
Which    whilst    the    sacred    stars    round 

Heaven  are  /oiled 
Will  profit  you  and  me  —  nor  shall  our 

lot 
Be  as  you  counsel,  without  gifts  or  food, 
To  spend  our  lives  in  this  obscure  abode. 


"  But  we  will  leave  this  shadow-peopled 

cave 
And  live  among  the   Gods,  and  pass 

each  day 
In  high   communion,   sharing  what  they 

have 
Of    profuse   wealth   and    unexhausted 

prey; 
And  from   the  portion  which  my  father 

gave 
To    Phoebus,   I  will   snatch    my  share 

away, 
Which  if  my  father  will  not  —  natheless 

I, 
Who  am  the  king  of  robbers,  can  but  try. 

xxx. 

"  And,  if  Latona's  son  should  find  me 

out, 
I'll  countermine  him  by  a  deeper  plan; 
I'll  pierce  the  Pythian  temple-walls,  tho' 

stout, 
And    sack  the  fane   of   every  thing   I 

can  — 
Caldrons  and  tripods  of  great  worth  no 

doubt, 
Each  golden  cup   and   polisht  brazen 

pan, 
All  the  wrought  tapestries  and  garments 

gay."  — 
So  they  together  talkt;  —  meanwhile  the 

Day, 

XXXI. 

Ethereal  born,  arose  out  of  the  flood 
Of    flowing    Ocean,    bearing    light    to 
men. 
Apollo  past  toward  the  sacred  wood, 
Which  from   the   inmost   depths  of  its 
green  glen 


Echoes    the    voice    of    Neptune,  —  and 

there  stood 
On  the  same  spot  in  green  Onchestus 

then 
That  same  old  animal,  the  vine-dresser, 
Who  was  employed  hedging  his  vineyard 

there. 

XXXII. 

Latona's  glorious  Son  began  :  —  "I  pray 
Tell,     ancient    hedger    of    Onchestus 
green, 
Whether  a  drove  of   kine  has  past  this 
way, 
All  heifers  with  crookt  horns?  for  they 
have  been 
Stolen  from  the  herd  in  high  Pieria, 
Where  a  black  bull  was  fed  apart,  be- 
tween 
Two  woody  mountains  in  a  neighboring 

glen, 
And  four  fierce  dogs  watcht  there,  unani- 
mous as  men. 

XXXIII. 

"  And  what  is  strange,  the  author  of  this 

theft 
Has   stolen    the   fatted  heifers,  every 

one, 
But  the  four  dogs  and  the  black  bull  are 

left : — 
Stolen  they  were  last  night  at  set  of 

sun, 
Of  their  soft  beds  and  their  sweet  food 

bereft  — 
Now  tell  me,  man  born  ere   the  world 

begun, 
Have  you  seen  any  one   pass  with    the: 

cows?  "  — 
To  whom  the  man  of  overhanging  brows  : 


"  My  friend,  it  would  require  no  common 
skill 
Justly  to  speak  of   everything  I  see : 
On  various  purposes  of  good  or  ill 

Many  pass  by  my  vineyard,  —  and  to 
me 
'T  is  difficult  to  know  the  invisible 

Thoughts,    which   in    all    those    many 
minds  may  be  :  — 
Thus  much  alone  I  certainly  can  say, 
I  tilled  these  vines  till  the  decline  of  day, 


HOMER'S  HYMN   TO  MERCURY. 


603 


"And  then  I  thought  I  saw,  but  dare  not 
speak 
With    certainty    of    such    a    wondrous 
thing, 
A  child,  who  could  not  have  been  born 
a  week, 
Those  fair-horned  cattle  closely  follow- 
ing. 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  polisht  stick : 
And,  as  on  purpose,  he  walkt  waver- 
ing 
From  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  road, 
And  with  his  face  opposed  the  steps  he 
trod." 


Apollo  hearing  this,  past  quickly  on  — 
No   winged   omen   could   have   shown 
more  clear 
That  the  deceiver  was  his  father's  son. 

So  the  God  wraps  a  purple  atmosphere 

Around  his    shoulders,  and    like    fire  is 

gone 

To    famous    Pylos,    seeking    his    kine 

there, 

And  found  their  track  and  his,  yet  hardly 

cold, 
And    cried — "What    wonder   do    mine 
eyes  behold  ! 


"  Here  are  the  footsteps  of  the  horned 
herd 
Turned   back    towards    their   fields   of 
asphodel ;  — 
But  these  !  are  not  the  tracks  of  beast  or 
bird, 
Gray  wolf,  or  bear,  or  lion  of  the  dell, 
Or    maned    Centaur  —  sand    was    never 
stirred 
By  man  or  woman  thus  !    Inexplicable  ! 
Who  with  unwearied  feet  could  e'er  im- 
press 
The  sand  with  such  enormous  vestiges? 


That  was  most  strange  —  but   this    is 

stranger  still  !  " 
Thus  having  said,  Phoebus  impetuously 


Sought    high    Cyllene's    forest-cinctured 
hill, 
And  the  deep  cavern  where  dark  shad- 
ows lie, 

And  where    the    ambrosial    nymph   with 
happy  will 
Bore  the  Saturnian's  love-child,  Mer- 
cury — 

And  a  delightful  odor  from  the  dew 

Of  the  hill  pastures,  at  his  coming,  flew, 


And    Phoebus    stoopt    under  the    craggy 
roof 
Archt  over  the  dark  cavern: — Maia's 
child 
Perceived  that  he  came  angry,  far  aloof, 
About  the  cows  of  which  he  had  been 
beguiled, 
And  over  him  the  fine  and  fragrant  woof 
Of  his  ambrosial  swaddling  clothes  he 
piled  — 
As  *among    fire  -  brands    lies    a   burning 

spark 
Covered,    beneath    the    ashes    cold    and 
dark. 

XL. 

There,  like  an  infant  who  had  suckt  his 
fill 
And  now  was  newly  washt  and  put  to 
bed, 
Awake,    but    courting   sleep  with   weary 
will, 
And  gathered  in   a  lump,  hands,  feet, 
and  head, 
He  lay,  and  his  beloved  tortoise  still 
He   graspt   and   held   under  his  shoul- 
der-blade. 
Phoebus    the    lovely    mountain  -  goddess 

knew, 
Not  less  her  subtle,  swindling  baby,  who 


Lay   swathed    in    his   sly   wiles.      Round 
every  crook 
Of    the    ample  cavern,   for    his    kine, 
Apollo 
Lookt  sharp;  and  when  he  saw  them  not, 
he  took 
The  glittering  key,  and  opened  three 
great  hollow 


004 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Recesses   in   the   rock  —  where    many  a 
nook 
Was  filled  with    the   sweet    food    im- 
mortals swallow, 
And  mighty  heaps  of  silver  and  of  gold 
Were  piled  within  —  a  wonder  to  behold  ! 


And  white    and    silver    robes,   all    over- 
wrought 
With  cunning  workmanship  of  tracery 
sweet  — 
Except    among  the   Gods   there   can   be 
naught 
In    the  wide   world    to    be    compared 
with  it. 
Latona's  offspring,  after  having  sought 
His    herds    in   every  corner,   thus  did 
greet 
Great  Hermes:  —  "  Little  cradled  rogue, 

declare 
Of  my  illustrious  heifers,  where  they  are  ! 


"Speak  quickly!  or  a  quarrel  between 
us 
Must  rise,  and  the  event  will  be,  that  I 
Shall  hurl  you  into  dismal  Tartarus, 
In  fiery  gloom  to  dwell  eternally; 
Nor   shall    your    father    nor  your  mother 
loose 
The    bars    of    that    black    dungeon  — 
utterly 
You  shall  be  cast  out  from  the  light  of 

day, 
To  rule  the  ghosts  of    men,   unblest   as 
they." 


To  whom  thus  Hermes  slily  answered: 
—  "  Son 
Of    great    Latona,   what    a    speech    is 
this! 
Why  come  you  here  to  ask  me  what  is 
done 
With    the   wild  oxen  which    it    seems 
you  miss? 
I  have  not  seen  them,  nor  from  any  one 
Have    heard     a    word     of     the   whole 
business; 


If    you  should  promise  an  immense  re- 

ward, 
I  could  not  tell  more  than  you  now  have 

heard. 

XLV. 

"An  ox-stealer  should  be  both  tall  and 

strong, 
And  I  am  but  a  little  new-born  thing, 
Who,  yet  at  least,  can  think  of  nothing 
wrong :  — 
My   business    is    to   suck,    and   sleep, 
and  fling 
The    cradle-clothes    about    me    all    day 
long,  — 
Or  half  asleep,  hear  my  sweet  mother 
sing, 
And    to   be  washt    in    water    clean    and 

warm, 
And  husht  and  kist  and  kept  secure  from 
harm. 

XLVI. 

"  O,  let  not  e'er  this  quarrel  be  averred  ! 
The  astounded  Gods  would    laugh  at 
you,  if  e'er 
You  should  allege  a  story  so  absurd, 
As  that  a  new-born  infant  forth   could 
fare 
Out  of  his  home  after  a  savage  herd. 
I  was  born  yesterday  —  my  small   feet 
are 
Too    tender  for  the  roads   so  hard    and 

rough : — 
And  if  you  think  that  this  is  not  enough, 

XLVI  I. 

!    "I   swear  a  great  oath,  by  my  father's 
head, 
That  I  stole  not  your  cows,  and  that  I 
know 
Of  no  one   else  who  might,  or  could,  or 
did.  — 
Whatever  things  cows   are.   I  do    not 
know, 
For  I    have   only  heard    the    name."  — 
This  said, 
He  winkt  as  fast  as  could  be,  and   his 
brow 
Was  wrinkled,  and  a  whistle  loud  gave 

he, 
Like  one  who  hears   some    strange   ab- 
surdity. 


HOMER'S  HYMN   TO  MERCURY. 


605 


XLVIII. 

Apollo  gently  smiled  and  said  :  —  "  Aye, 
aye,  — 
You    cunning    little    rascal,    you    will   j 
bore 
Many  a  rich  man's  house,  and  your  array  j 
Of  thieves  will   lay  their  siege  before   I 
his  door, 
Silent  as    night,  in  night;    and  many  a 
day 
In    the    wild    glens    rough    shepherds 
will   deplore 
That  you  or  yours,  having  an  appetite, 
Met  with   their  cattle,   comrade  of    the 
night ! 


Cyllenian    Hermes    from     the    grassy 
place, 
Like  one  in  earnest  haste  to  get  away, 
Rose,  and  with  hands  lifted  towards 
his  face 
Round  both  his  ears  —  up  from  his  shoul- 
ders drew 
His    swaddling    clothes,    and — "What 
mean   you  to  do 


"  And  this  among  the  Gods  shall  be  your 
gift, 
T.o  be  considered  as  the  lord  of  those   ' 


"  With    me,   you    unkind    God?  "    said 
Mercury: 
"  Is  it  about  these  cows  you  tease  me 
so? 
I  wish  the  race  of  cows  were  perisht !   I 
Stole  not  your  cows  —  I  do  not  even 
know 
What    things    cows   are.     Alas !    I  well 
may  sigh, 

Who  swindle,  house-break,  sheep-steal,  That  since  I  came   into   this   world  of 

and  shop-lift; —  woe, 

But  now,   if  you  would  not  your  last   :   I  should   have  ever  heard  the  name  of 
sleep  doze;  one  — 

Crawl  out !  "  — Thus  saying,  Phoebus  did   j   But  I  appeal  to  the  Saturnian's  throne." 
uplift 
The    subtle    infant    in  his   swaddling-   j  LIII. 

clothes, 
And  in  his  arms,  according  to  his  wont, 
A  scheme  devised   the    illustrious  Argi 
phont. 

L. 


And   sneezed    and   shuddered  —  Phoebus 
on  the  grass 
Him  threw,  and  whilst  all  that  he  had 
designed 
He  did  perform  —  eager  altho'  to  pass, 
Apollo  darted  from  his  mighty  mind 
Towards  the   subtle  babe   the  following 

scoff :  — 
"  Do  not  imagine  this  will  get  you  off, 


"  You  little  swaddled  child  of  Jove  and 

May!  " 
And  seized  him: — "By  this   omen  I 

shall  trace 
My  noble  herds,  and  you  shall  lead  the 

way."  — 


Thus  Phoebus  and  the  vagrant  Mercury 
Talkt  without  coming  to  an   explana- 
tion, 
With  adverse  purpose.     As  for  Phoebus, 
he 

Sought  not  revenge,  but  only  informa- 
tion, 
And  Hermes  tried  with  lies  and  roguery 
To     cheat    Apollo.  —  But     when     no 
evasion 
Served  —  for  the  cunning  one  his  match 

had  found  — 
He  paced  on  first  over  the  sandy  ground. 

Liv. 

He  of  the  Silver  Bow  the  child  of  Jove 
Followed  behind,  till   to  their  heavenly 
Sire 
Came  both  his  children  —  beautiful  as 
Love, 
And  from  his  equal  balance  did   require 
A  judgment  in  the  cause  wherein  they 
strove. 
O'er  odorous  Olympus  and  its  snows 


6o6 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


A    murmuring    tumult     as     they    came 
arose, — 

LV. 

And  from  the  folded  depths  of  the  great 
Hill, 
While   Hermes  and    Apollo    reverent 
stood 
Before  Jove's  throne,  the  indestructible 
Immortals  rusht  in  mighty  multitude; 
And  whilst  their  seats  in  order  due  they 
fill, 
The    lofty    Thunderer    in    a   careless 
mood 
To  Phoebus  said:  — "  Whence  drive  you 

this  sweet  prey, 
This  herald-baby,  born  but  yesterday?  — 

LVI. 

"A  most  important  subject,  trifler,  this 
To   lay  before  the  Gods  !  "  —  "  Nay, 
father,  nay, 

When  you  have  understood  the  business, 
Say  not  that  I  alone  am  fond  of  prey. 

I  found  this  little  boy  in  a  recess 

Under  Cyllene's  mountains  far  away  — 

A  manifest  and  most  apparent  thief, 

A  scandal-monger  beyond  all  belief. 

LVI  I. 

*'  I  never  saw  his  like  either  in  heaven 

Or  upon  earth  for  knavery  or  craft:  — 
Out  of  the  field  my  cattle  yester-even, 
By  the  low  shore  on  which   the  loud 
sea  laught, 
He    right    down    to    the    river-ford   had 
driven; 
And  mere   astonishment  would   make 
you  daft 
To    see    the    double    kind    of    footsteps 

strange 
He  has  imprest  wherever  he  did  range. 


"The  cattle's  track  on  the  black  dust, 
full  well 
Is  evident,  as  if  they  went  towards 
The  place  from  which  they  came — that 
asphodel 
Meadow,    in  which    I   feed    my  many 
herds,  — 
His  steps  were  most  incomprehensible  — 


I  know   not  how    I    can    describe    in 
words 
Those  tracks  —  he  could  have  gone  along 

the  sands 
Neither  upon  his  feet  nor  on  his  hands;  — 


"  He  must  have  had  some  other  stranger 
mode 
Of  moving  on :  those  vestiges  immense, 
Far  as  I  traced  them  on  the  sandy  road, 
Seemed  like  the  trail  of  oak-toppings: 
—  but  thence 
No  mark  nor  track  denoting  where  they 
trod 
The  hard  ground  gave: — but,  working 
at  his  fence, 
A  mortal  hedger  saw  him  as  he  past 
To  Pylos,  with  the  cows,  in  fiery  haste. 


"  I  found  that  in  the  dark  he  quietly 
Had  sacrificed  some  cows,  and  before 
light 
Had  thrown  the  ashes  all  dispersedly 
About  the  road  —  then,  still  as  gloomy 
night, 
Had  crept  into  his  cradle,  either  eye 
Rubbing,    and    cogitating    some    new 
sleight. 
No  eagle  could  have  seen  him  as  he  lay 
Hid  in  his  cavern  from  the  peering  day. 


LXI. 

"  I    taxt   him    with    the    fact,   when   he 
averred 
Most  solemnly  that  he  did  neither  see 
Nor  even  had  in  any  manner  heard 
Of  my  lost  cows,  whatever  things  cows 
be; 
Nor  could  he  tell,  tho'  offered  a  reward, 
Not  even  who  could  tell  of  them   to 
me." 
So  speaking,  Phoebus  sate;   and  Hermes 

then 
Addrest  the  Supreme  Lord  of  Gods  and 
men: — 


HOMER'S  HYMN   TO   MERCURY. 


6o7 


"  Great  Father,  you  know  clearly  before- 
hand 
That  all  which  I  shall  say  to   you    is 
sooth; 
I  am  a  most  veracious  person,  and 

Totally  unacquainted  with  untruth. 
At   sunrise,   Phoebus  came,  but  with  no 
band 
Of  Gods  to  bear  him  witness,  in  great 
wrath, 
To  my  abode,  seeking  his  heifers  there, 
And  saying  that  I  must  show  him  where 
they  are, 


"Or  he  would  hurl  me  down   the   dark 
abyss. 
I  know  that  every  Apollonian  limb 
Is   clothed  with    speed   and    might   and 
manliness, 
As  a  green    bank  with    flowers — but 
unlike  him 
I  was  born  yesterday,  and  you  may  guess 
He  well  knew  this  when  he  indulged 
the  whim 
Of  bullying  a  poor  little  new-born  thing 
That  slept,  and  never  thought  of  cow- 
driving. 

LXIV. 

"  Am  I  like  a  strong  fellow  who  steals 
kine? 
Believe  me,  dearest  Father,  such  you 
are, 
This  driving  of  the  herds  is  none  of  mine; 
Across  my  threshold  did  I  wander  ne'er, 
So  may  I  thrive  !   I  reverence  the  divine 
Sun  and  the  Gods,  and  I  love  you,  and 
care 
Even  for  this  hard  accuser  —  who  must 

know 
I  am  as  innocent  as  they  or  you. 

LXV. 

"  I    swear    by    these    most    gloriously- 
wrought  portals  — - 
(It  is,  you  will  allow,  an  oath  of  might) 
Thro'   which   the  multitude   of    the    Im- 
mortals 
Pass  and  repass  for  ever,  day  and  night, 


Devising    schemes    for    the    affairs     of 

mortals  — 
That  I  am  guiltless;  and  I  will  requite, 
Altho'  mine  enemy  be  great  and  strong, 
His  cruel  threat  —  do  thou  defend  the 

young  !  " 


So  speaking,  the  Cyllenian  Argiphont 
Winkt,   as  if   now    his  adversary  was 
fitted:  — 
And  Jupiter  according  to  his  wont, 

Laught    heartily   to    hear    the    subtle- 
witted 
Infant  give  such  a  plausible  account, 

And  every  word  a  lie.    But  he  remitted 
Judgment  at  present  —  and  his  exhorta- 
tion 
Was,  to  compose  the  affair  by  arbitration. 

LXVII. 

And  they  by  mighty  Jupiter  were  bidden 
To  go  forth  with  a  single  purpose  both, 
Neither  the  other  chiding  nor   yet   chid- 
den: 
And  Mercury  with  innocence  and  truth 
To  lead  the  way,  and  show  where  he  had 
hidden 
The  mighty  heifers.  —  Hermes,  nothing 
loth, 
Obeyed  the  iEgis-bearer's  will  —  for  he 
Is  able  to  persuade  all  easily. 


These  lovely  children  of  Heaven's  high- 
est Lord 
Hastened  to   Pylos  and    the    pastures 
wide 
And  lofty  stalls  by  the  Alphean  ford, 
Where   wealth    in    the    mute    night   is 
multiplied 
With    silent    growth.      Whilst    Hermes 
drove    the    herd 
Out  of  the  stony  cavern,  Phcebus  spied 
The  hides  of  those  the   little  babe   had 

slain, 
Stretcht  on  the  precipice  above  the  plain. 


How  was  it  possible,"  then    Phcebus 
said, 


6o8 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


"That  you,  a  little  child,  born  yester- 
day, 
A  thing  on  mother's  milk  and  kisses  fed, 
Could  two  prodigious  heifers  ever  flay  ! 
Even  I  myself  may  well  hereafter  dread 
Your   prowess,  offspring  of  Cyllenian 
May, 
When  you  grow  strong  and  tall."  —  He 

spoke,  and  bound 
Stiff    withy   bands    the     infant's    wrists 
around. 


He  might  as  well  have  bound  the  oxen 
wild; 
The  withy  bands,  though   starkly  in- 
terknit, 
Fell  at  the  feet  of  the  immortal  child, 
Loosened  by  some  device  of  his  quick 
wit. 
Phcebus  perceived  himself  again  beguiled, 
And   stared  —  while     Hermes    sought 
some  hole  or  pit, 
Looking    askance    and   winking  fast   as 

thought, 
Where  he  might  hide  himself  and  not  be 
caught. 

LXXI. 

Sudden  he  changed  his  plan,  and  with 
strange  skill 
Subdued  the  strong  Latonian,  by  the 
might 
Of  winning  music,  to  his  mightier  will; 
His  left  hand  held  the  lyre,  and  in  his 
right 
The  plectrum  struck  the  chords  —  uncon- 
querable 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  in  circling 
flight 
The  gathering  music  rose  —  and  sweet  as 

Love 
The  penetrating  notes  did  live  and  move 

LXXII. 

Within  the  heart  of  great  Apollo.  —  He 
Listened   with  all  his  soul,  and  laught 
for  pleasure. 
Close  to  his  side  stood  harping  fearlessly 
The     unabashed     boy;      and     to     the 
measure 
Of  the  sweet    lyre,  there    followed    loud 
and  free 


His  joyous  voice;    for  he   unlockt  the 

treasure 
Of  his  deep  song,  illustrating  the  birth 
Of  the  bright  Gods,  and  the  dark  desert 

Earth : 


And  how  to  the  Immortals  every  one 
A  portion  was  assigned  of  all  that  is; 

But  chief  Mnemosyne  did  Maia's  son 
Clothe  in  the  light  of  his  loud  melo- 
dies;— 

And  as  each  God  was  born  or  had  begun 
He  in  their  order  due  and  fit  degrees 

Sung  of  his   birth   and  being  —  and  did 
move 

Apollo  to  unutterable  love. 


These  words  were  winged  with  his  swift 

delight : 
"You  heifer-stealing    schemer,  well    do 

you 
Deserve  that  fifty  oxen  should  requite 
Such  minstrelsies  as  I  have  heard  even 

now. 
Comrade  of  feasts,  little  contriving  wight, 
One    of    your  secrets   I  would  gladly 

know, 
Whether  the    glorious    power   you    now 

show    forth 
Was  folded  up  within  you  at  your  birth, 


"  Or  whether  mortal  taught  or  God  in- 
spired 
The  power  of  unpremeditated  song? 
Many  divinest  sounds  have  I  admired, 
The  Olympian  Gods  and  mortal  men 
among; 
But  such  a  strain  of  wondrous,  strange, 
untired, 
And  soul-awakening  music,  sweet  and 
strong, 
Yet  did  I  never  hear  except  from  thee, 
Offspring  of  May,  impostor  Mercury  ! 


"What    Muse,    what  skill,   what  unim- 
agined  use, 
What  exercise  of  subtlest  art,  has  given 


HOMER'S  HYMN   TO   MERCURY. 


609 


Thy  songs  such  power?  —  for  those  who 

hear  may  choose 
From  three,  the   choicest   of  the   gifts 

of   Heaven, 
Delight,    and    love,   and    sleep,  —  sweet 

sleep,  whose  dews 
Are   sweeter   than   the   balmy  tears   of 

even :  — 
And  I,  who  speak  this  praise,   am  that 

Apollo 
Whom  the  Olympian  Muses  ever  follow: 


"And  their    delight    is    dance  and    the 
blithe  noise 
Of   song  and  overflowing  poesy; 
And  sweet,   even    as    desire,   the    liquid 
voice 
Of  pipes,  that  fills  the  clear  air  thrill- 
ingly; 
But  never  did  my  inmost  soul  rejoice 

In  this  dear  work  of  youthful  revelry 
As  now.     I  wonder  at  thee,  son  of  Jove; 
Thy   harpings   and   thy  song   are   soft   as 
love. 

LXXVIII. 

"Now  since  thou    hast,  altho'    so  very 

small, 
Science    of    arts    so    glorious,  thus    I 

swear, 
And   let    this    cornel    javelin,   keen    and 

tall, 
Witness  between    us  what   I  promise 

here,  — 
That  I  will  lead  thee  to  the   Olympian 

Hall, 
Honored  and  mighty,  with  thy  mother 

dear, 
And  many  glorious  gifts  in  joy  will  give 

thee, 
And  even  at  the   end  will   ne'er    deceive 

thee." 

LXXIX. 

To    whom    thus    Mercury  with    prudent 
speech  :  — 
"Wisely    hast    thou    inquired    of    my 
skid: 
I  envy  thee  no  thing  I  know  to  teach 
Even  this  day  : —  for  both  in  word  and 
will 


I  would  be  gentle  with   thee;  thou   canst 

reach 
All  things  in  thy  wise   spirit,  and   thy 

sill 
Is  highest  in  heaven  among  the  sons  of 

Jove, 
Who  loves  thee  in  the  fulness  of  his  love. 


"The  Counsellor  Supreme  has  given  to 
thee 
Divinest  gifts,  out  of  the  amplitude 
Of  his  profuse  exhaustless  treasury; 
By  thee,  't  is  said,  the  depths  are  un- 
derstood 
Of  his  far  voice;  by  thee  the  mystery 
Of  all  oracular  fates,  — and  the  dread 
mood 
Of  the  diviner  is  breathed  up,  even  I  — 
A  child  —  perceive  thy  might  and   ma- 
jesty— 

LXXXI. 

"  Thou  canst  seek  out  and   compass  all 
that  wit 
Can   find  or    teach;  —  yet    since    thou 
wilt,  come  take 
The  lyre  —  be  mine  the  glory  giving  it  — 
Strike    the     sweet     chords,    and     sing 
aloud,  and  wake 
Thy  joyous  pleasure  out  of  many  a  fit 
Of  tranced  sound  —  and  with  fleet  fin- 
gers make 
Thy    liquid-voiced     comrade     talk    with 

thee, — 
It  can  talk  measured  music  eloquently. 


"  Then  bear  it  boldly  to  the  revel  loud, 
Love-wakening    dance,     or    feast     of 
solemn  state, 
A  joy  by  night  or   day  —  for  those  en- 
dowed 
With  art  and  wisdom  who  interrogate 
It  teaches,  babbling  in  delightful  mood 
All  things  which  make  the  spirit   most 
elate, 
Soothing   the  mind  with  sweet   familiar 

play, 
Chasing  the  heavy  shadows  of  dismay. 


6io 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


LXXXIII. 

"  To  those  who  are  unskilled  in  its  sweet 
tongue, 
Tho'  they  should  question  most  impet- 
uously 
Its    hidden    soul,    it    gossips    something 
wrong  — 
Some  senseless  and  impertinent  reply. 
But  thou  who  art  as  wise    as    thou   art 
strong 
Canst  compass  all  that  thou  desirest.    I 
Present  thee  with  this  music-flowing  shell, 
Knowing  thou  canst  interrogate  it  well. 


"And  let    us   two    henceforth    together 
feed 
On  this  green  mountain  slope  and  pas- 
toral plain, 
The  herds  in  litigation  —  they  will  breed 
Quickly    enough    to    recompense     our 
pain, 
If  to  the  bulls   and  cows  we  take  good 
heed; — 
And  thou,  tho'  somewhat  over  fond  of 
gain, 
Grudge  me  not  half  the  profit."  —  Hav- 
ing spoke, 
The  shell  he  proffered,  and  Apollo  took. 


And  gave  him  in  return    the    glittering 
lash, 
Installing    him    as  herdsman; — from 
the  look 
Of  Mercury  then  laught  a  joyous  flash. 
And  then  Apollo   with    the    plectrum 
strook 
The  chords,  and  from  beneath  his  hands 
a  crash 
Of    mighty    sounds    rusht    up,   whose 
music  shook 
The  soul  with    sweetness,   and    like    an 

adept 
His  sweeter  voice  a  just  accordance  kept. 


'he  herd  went  wandering  o'er  the  divine 
mend, 
Whilst   these   most   beautiful   Sons   of 
Jupiter 


Won  their  swift  way  up  to  the  snowy 

head 
Of  white  Olympus,   with    the    joyous 

lyre 
Soothing  their  journey;  and  their  father 

dread 
Gathered  them  both  into  familiar 
Affection   sweet, — and  then,  and  now, 

and  ever, 
Hermes  must  love   Him  of    the  Golden 

Quiver, 

LXXXVII. 

To  whom  he  gave  the   lyre  that  sweetly 
sounded, 
Which  skilfully  he    held    and    played 
thereon. 
He  piped  the  while,   and  far  and  wide 
rebounded 
The  echo  of  his  pipings;  every  one 
Of  the  Olympians  sat  with  joy  astounded, 
While  he  conceived  another  piece  of 
fun, 
One  of  his  old  tricks  —  which  the  God 

of  Day 
Perceiving,  said: — "  I  fear  thee,  Son  of 
May  ;  — 

LXXXVIII. 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  sly  chameleon  spirit, 
Lest  thou    should   steal  my  lyre  and 
crooked  bow; 
This  glory  and  power    thou    dost    from 
Jove  inherit, 
To  teach  all  craft  upon  the  earth  be- 
low; 
Thieves  love  and  worship  thee  —  it  is  thy 
merit 
To  make  all  mortal  business  ebb  and 
flow 
By  roguery : —  now,  I  Iermes,  if  you  dare, 
By  sacred  Styx  a  mighty  oath  to  swear 


"  That  you  will  never  rob  me,  you  will  do 
A    thing    extremely    pleasing     to    my 
heart." 
Then  Mercury  sware  by  the  Stygian  dew, 
That  he  would  never  steal  his  bow  or 
dart, 
Or  lay  his  hands  on  what  to   him  way 
due, 


HOMER'S  HYMiV   TO  MERCURY. 


611 


Or  erer  would   employ  his    powerful 

art 
Against  his  Pythian  fane.     Then  Phoebus 

swore 
There  was    no   God   or    man  whom    he 

loved  more. 

xc. 

''And  I  will  give   thee  as  a   good-will 
token, 
The    beautiful    wand    of    wealth    and 
happiness; 
A  perfect  three-leaved  rod  of  gold  un- 
broken, 
Whose  magic  will  thy  footsteps  ever 
bless; 
And  whatsoever  by  Jove's  voice  is  spoken 

Of  earthly  or  divine  from  its  recess, 
It,  like  a  loving  soul,  to  thee  will  speak, 
And  more  than  this,  do  thou  forbear  to 
seek. 


"For,  dearest  child,  the  divinations  high 
Which  thou  requirest,    't  is  unlawful 
ever 
That  thou,  or  any  other  deity 

Should    understand  —  and    vain   were 
the    endeavor; 
For    they  are    hidden    in    Jove's    mind, 
and    I 
In  trust  of  them,  have  sworn  that  I 
would  never 
Betray  the  counsels  of  Jove's  inmost  will 
To  any  God  —  the  oath  was  terrible. 


"Then,  golden-wanded  brother,  ask  me 
not 
To  speak  the  fates  by  Jupiter  designed ; 
But  be  it  mine  to  tell  their  various  lot 
To  the  unnumbered   tribes   of  human 
kind. 
Let  good  to  these,  and   ill  to  those  be 
wrought 
As  I    dispense  —  but    he    who    comes 
consigned 
Ry  voice  and  win^s  of  perfect  augury 
To   my  great  shrine,  shall  find  avail    in 
me. 


XCIII. 

"  Him  will  I  not  deceive,  but  will  assist; 
But  he  who   comes    relying    on    such 
birds 
As  chatter  vainly,  who  would  strain  and 
twist 
The  purpose    of    the    Gods  with    idle 
words, 
And  deems    their    knowledge    light,  he 
shall  have  misst 
His   road  —  whilst  I  among  my  other 
hoards 
His  gifts  deposit.     Yet,  O  son  of  May, 
I'have  another  wondrous  thing  to  say. 


"There  are    three    Fates,    three    virgin 
Sisters,  who 
Rejoicing    in    their    wind-outspeeding 
wings, 
Their    heads    with     flour     snowed    over 
white  and  new, 
Sit  in  a  vale    round  which  Parnassus 
flings 
Its    circling   skirts  —  from   these   I   have 
learned  true 
Vaticinations  of  remotest  things. 
My  father  cared  not.     Whilst  they  search 

out  dooms, 
They  sit  apart  and  feed  on  honeycombs. 


"  They,   having  eaten  the  fresh  honey, 
grow 
Drunk    with    divine    enthusiasm,    and 
utter 
With  earnest  willingness  the   truth  they 
know; 
But   if    deprived   of    that  sweet   food, 
they  mutter 
All  plausible  delusions; — these  to  you 
I  give;  —  if  you  inquire,  they  will  Aoi 
stutter; 
Delight  your  own  soul  with  them: — any 

man 
You  would  instruct  may  profit  if  he  can. 


Take  these  and  the  fierce  oxen,  Maia's 
child  — 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


O'er  many  a  horse  and  toil-enduring 
mule, 
O'er  jagged-jawed  lions,  and  the  wild 
White-tusked  boars,   o'er  all,  by  field 
or  pool, 
Of  cattle  which  the  mighty  Mother  mild 
Nourishes    in    her    bosom,  thou    shalt 
rule  — 
Thou  dost  alone  the  veil  from  death  up- 
lift— 
Thou  givest  not  —  yet  this  is  a  great  gift." 


Thus  King  Apollo    loved    the    child    of 

May 
In  truth,  and  Jove  covered   their   love 

with  joy, 
Hermes  with  Gods  and  men  even  from 

that  day 
Mingled,  and  wrought  the  latter  much 

annoy, 
And  little  profit,  going  far  astray 

Thro'   the  dun  night.     Farewell,   de- 
lightful   Boy," 
Of  Jove  and  Maia    sprung, — never    by 

me, 
Nor  thou,  nor  other  songs,   shall  unre- 

membered  be. 


HOMER'S    HYMN   TO   CASTOR 
AND    POLLUX. 

Ye  wild-eyed  Muses,  sing  the  Twins  of 

Jove, 
Whom  the  fair-ankled  Leda,  mixt  in  love 
With  mighty  Saturn's   heaven-obscuring 

Child, 
On  Taygetus,  that  lofty  mountain  wild, 
Brought  forth  in  joy,  mild  Pollux  void  of 

blame, 
And    steed-subduing    Castor,     heirs    of 

fame. 
These  are    the    Powers  who    earth-born 

mortals  save 
And  ships,  whose  flight  is  swift  along  the 

wave. 
When  wintry  tempests  o'er  the  savage 

sea 
Are  raging,  and  the  sailors  tremblingly 
Call  on   the  Twins   of  Jove  with    prayer 

and  vow. 


Gathered  in  fear  upon  the  lofty  prow, 
And  sacrifice  with  snow-white  lambs,  the 

wind 
And  the  huge  billow  bursting  close  be- 
hind, 
Even  then  beneath  the  weltering  waters 

bear 
The  staggering  ship  —  they  suddenly  ap- 
pear, 
On  yellow  wings  rushing  athwart  the  sky, 
And  lull  the  blasts  in  mute  tranquillity, 
And  strew  the  waves  on  the  white  ocean's 

bed, 
Fair  omen  of  the  voyage;  from  toil  and 

dread, 
The  sailors  rest,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 
And  plough  the  quiet  sea  in  safe  delight. 


PIOMER'S  HYMN  TO  THE  MOON. 

Daughters    of    Jove,   whose    voice    is 

melody, 
Muses,  who  know  and  rule  all  minstrelsy  ! 
Sing  the  wide-winged    Moon.     Around 

the  earth, 
From  her  immortal  head  in  Heaven  shot 

forth, 
Far  light  is  scattered  —  boundless  glory 

springs; 
Where'er  she  spreads  her  many-beaming 

wings 
The  lampless  air  glows  round  her  golden 

crown. 

But    when    the     Moon    divine     from 

Heaven  is  gone 
Under  the  sea,  her  beams  within  abide, 
Till,  bathing  her  bright  limbs  in  Ocean's 

tide, 
Clothing  her  form  in  garments  glittering 

far, 
And  having  yoked  to  her  immortal  car 
The  beam-invested  steeds,  whose   necks 

on  high 
Curve  back,  she  drives  to  a  remoter  sky 
A  western  Crescent,  borne  impetuously. 
Then  is  made  full  the  circle  of  her  light, 
And  as  she  grows,  her  beams  more  bright 

and  bright, 
Are  poured    from    Heaven,  where  she  is 

hovering  then, 
A  wonder  and  a  si<:n  to  mortal  men. 


HOMER'S  HYMN   TO    THE  SUN. 


613 


The  Son  of  Saturn  with  this  glorious 

Power 
Mingled    in    love   and  sleep  —  to  whom 

she  bore, 
Pandeia,  a  bright  maid  of  beauty  rare 
Among  the    Gods,    whose    lives  eternal 

are. 

Hail  Queen,  great  Moon,  white-armed 

Divinity, 
Fair-haired    and    favorable,     thus    with 

thee, 
My  song  beginning,  by  its  music  sweet 
Shall    make    immortal    many  a  glorious 

feat 
Of  demigods,  with  lovely  lips,  so  well 
Which  minstrels,  servants  of  the  muses, 

tell. 


HOMER'S   HYMN   TO   THE   SUN. 

Offspring  of  Jove,  Calliope,  once  more 
To  the  bright   Sun,  thy  hymn   of  music 

pour; 
Whom  to  the   child  of  star-clad   Heaven 

and  Earth 
Euryphaessa,  large-eyed  nymph,  brought 

forth; 
Euryphaessa,  the  famed  sister  fair, 
Of  great  Hyperion,  who  to  him  did  bear 
A  race  of  loveliest   children;    the  young 

Morn, 
Whose  arms  are   like   twin  roses  newly 

born, 
The  fair-haired  Moon,  and  the  immortal 

Sun, 
Who,  borne  by  heavenly  steeds  his  race 

doth  run 
Unconquerably,  illuming  the  abodes 
Of  mortal  men  and  the  eternal  gods. 

Fiercely  look   forth  his  awe-inspiring 

eyes, 
Beneath  his  golden  helmet,  whence  arise 
And  are  shot  forth  afar,  clear  beams  of 

light; 
His    countenance    with     radiant     glory 

bright 
Beneath    his    graceful    locks    far    shines 

around, 
And  the  light  vest  with  which  his  limbs 

are  bound 


Of  woof  ethereal,  delicately  twined 
Glows    in    the    stream  of    the    uplifting 

wind. 
His   rapid   steeds   soon   bear  him  to  the 

west; 
Where  their  steep  flight  his  hands  divine 

arrest, 
And    the    fleet    car    with   yoke  of    gold, 

which  he 
Sends   from  bright  heaven   beneath  the 

shadowy  sea. 


HOMER'S  HYMN  TO  THE  EARTH : 
MOTHER  OF  ALL. 

O  universal  mother,  who  dost  keep 
From  everlasting  thy  foundations,  deep, 
Eldest    of    things,    Great  Earth,   I  sing 

of  thee; 
All  shapes  that  have  their   dwelling  in 

the  sea, 
All   things   that    fly,   or  on    the    ground 

divine 
Live,    move,    and  there  are  nourisht  — 

these  are  thine; 
These  from  thy  wealth  thou  dost  sustain; 

from  thee 
Fair  babes  are  born,  and  fruits  on  every 

tree 
Hang  ripe  and  large,  revered  Divinity  ! 

The  life   of  mortal   men   beneath  thy 

sway 
Is  held;  thy  power  both  gives  and  takes 

away  ! 
Happy   are   they   whom   thy  mild  favors 

nourish, 
All   things  unstinted   round  them   grow 

and  flourish. 
For    them,    endures    the     life-sustaining 

field 
Its  load  of  harvest,  and  their  cattle  yield 
Large    increase,    and    their    house    with 

wealth  is  filled. 
Such    honored    dwell  in   cities  fair    and 

free, 
The   homes   of    lovely  women,   prosper- 
ously; 
Their  sons  exult  in  youth's  new  budding 

gladness, 
And  their  fresh  daughters  free  from  care 

or  sadness, 


614 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


With  bloom-inwoven  dance  and  happy 
song, 

On  the  soft  flowers  the  meadow-grass 
among, 

Leap  round  them  sporting  —  such  de- 
lights by  thee, 

Are  given,  rich  Power,  revered  Divinity. 

Mother  of  gods,   thou  wife  of  starry 

Heaven, 
Farewell !    be   thou  propitious,  and    be 

given 
A  happy  life  for  this  brief  melody, 
Nor  thou  nor  other  songs  shall  unremem- 

bered  be. 


HOMER'S    HYMN   TO    MINERVA. 

I   SING   the  glorious   Power  with    azure 

eyes, 
Athenian   Pallas  !    tameless,  chaste,  and 

wise, 
Tritogenia,  town-preserving  maid, 
Revered    and    mighty;     from   his    awful 

head 
Whom    Jove    brought   forth,   in  warlike 

armor  drest, 
Golden,    all    radiant !     wonder    strange 

possest 
The  everlasting  Gods  that  shape  to  see, 
Shaking  a  javelin  keen,  impetuously 
Rush    from    the    crest    of     yEgis-bearing 

Jove; 
Fearfully  Heaven  was  shaken,   and  did 

move 
Beneath  the  might  of  the  Cerulean-eyed; 
Earth     dreadfully     resounded,     far     and 

wide, 
And    lifted    from    its    depths,    the    sea 

swelled   high 
In  purple  billows,  the  tide  suddenly 
Stood    still,    and    great    Hyperion's   son 

long    time 
Checkt   his   swift    steeds,    till  where  she 

stood  sublime, 
Pallas  from  her  immortal  shoulders  threw 
The  arms  divine:    wise  Jove  rejoiced  to 

view. 
Child  of   the  /Egis-bearer,  hail  to  thee, 
Nor  thine  nor  others'  praise   shall  unre- 

membered  be. 


HOMER'S    HYMN   TO   VENUS. 
[Vv.  1-55,  with  some  omissions.] 

Muse,  sing  the  deeds  of  golden  Aphro- 
dite, 

Who  wakens  with  her  smile  the  lulled 
delight 

Of  sweet  desire,  taming  the  eternal 
kings 

Of  Heaven,  and  men,  and  all  the  living 
things 

That  fleet  along  the  air,  or  whom  the 
sea, 

Or  earth  with  her  maternal  ministry 

Nourish  innumerable,  thy  delight 

All  seek  O  crowned  Aphrodite  ! 

Three  spirits  canst  thou  not  deceive  or 
quell, 

Minerva,  child  of  Jove,  who  loves  too 
well 

Fierce  war  and  mingling  combat,  and 
the  fame 

Of  glorious  deeds,  to  heed  thy  gentle 
flame. 

Diana  golden-shafted  queen, 

Is  tamed  not  by  thy  smiles;  the  shadows 
green 

Of  the  wild  woods,  the  bow,  the  .    .   . 

And  piercing  cries  amid  the  swift  pur- 
suit 

Of  beasts  among  waste  mountains,  such 
delight 

Is  hers,  and  men  who  know  and  do  the 
,  right. 

Nor  Saturn's  first-born  daughter,  Vesta 
chaste, 

Whom  Neptune  and  Apollo  wooed  the 
last, 

Such  was  the  will  of  aegis-bearing  Jove  ; 

But  sternly  she  refused  the  ills  of  Love, 

And  by  her  mighty  father's  head  she 
swore 

An  oath  not  unperformed,  that  ever- 
more 

A  virgin  she  would  live  mid  deities 

Divine:    her  father,  for  such  gentle  ties 

Renounced,  gave  glorious  gifts,  thus  in 
his  hall 

She  sits  and  feeds  luxuriously.  O'er 
all 


THE   CYCLOPS. 


615 


In  every  fane,  her  honors  first  arise 
From  men — the  eldest  of  Divinities. 

These  spirits  she   persuades  not,  nor 

deceives, 
But    none    beside    escape,    so    well    she 

weaves 
Her  unseen  toils;    nor  mortal  men,  nor 

gods 
Who  live  secure  in  their  unseen  abodes. 
She  won   the   soul   of   him  whose  fierce 

delight 
Is  thunder   —   first     in     glory     and     in 

might. 
And,  as    she    willed,    his    mighty    mind 

deceiving, 
With    mortal    limbs  his  deathless  limbs 

inweaving 
Concealed  him  from  his  spouse  and  sister 

fair, 
Whom  to  wise  Saturn  ancient  Rhea  bare. 

but  in  return, 
In  Venus  Jove  did  soft  desire  awaken, 
That    by   her    own    enchantments    over- 
taken, 
She  might,  no  more  from  human  union 

free, 
Burn  for  a  nursling  of  mortality. 
For  once,  amid  the  assembled  Deities, 
The  laughter-loving  Venus  from  her  eyes 
Shot    forth   the  light   of  a  soft  starlight 

smile, 
And  boasting  said,   that  she,  secure  the 

while, 
Could  bring   at   will    to    the    assembled 

gods 
The    mortal    tenants    of     earth's    dark 

abodes, 
And  mortal  offspring    from   a  deathless 

stem 
She  could  produce  in  scorn  and  spite  of 

them. 
Therefore    he    poured    desire    into    her 

breast 
Of  young  Anchises, 
Feeding    his   herds    among    the    mossy 

fountains 
Of    the   wide   Ida's  many-folded  moun- 
tains, 
Whom  Venus  saw,   and  loved,  and  the 

love  clung 
Like     wasting    fire     her     senses     wild 

among. 


THE  CYCLOPS. 

A   SATYRIC   DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE   GREEK   OF 
EURIPIDES. 

Silenus.  Ulysses. 

Chorus  of  Satyrs.  |      The  Cyclops. 

Silenus.     O  Bacchus,  what  a  world  of 

toil,  both  now 
And  ere  these  limbs  were  overworn  with 

age, 
Have  I  endured  for   thee  !     First,  when 

thou  fled'st 
The   mountain-nymphs  who   nurst   thee, 

driven  afar 
By  the  strange   madness  Juno  sent  upon 

thee; 
Then  in  the  battle  of  the  sons  of  Earth, 
When  I  stood  foot  by  foot  close  to  thy 

side, 
No  unpropitious  fellow-combatant, 
And  driving  thro'  his  shield  my  winged 

spear, 
Slew  vast  Enceladus.     Consider  now, 
Is  it  a  dream  of  which  I  speak  to  thee? 
By    Jove    it    is    not,    for   you    have    the 

trophies  ! 
And  now  I  suffer  more  than  all  before. 
For  when  I  heard  that  Juno  had  devised 
A  tedious  voyage  for  you,  I  put  to  sea 
With  all  my  children  quaint  in  search  of 

you, 
And  I  myself  stood  on  the  beaked  prow 
And  fixt  the     naked    mast,  and  all  my 

boys 
Leaning    upon    their    oars,   with    splash 

and  strain 
Made  white   with    foam   the  green  and 

purple  sea, — 
And  so  we  sought  you,  king.     We  were 

sailing 
Near  Malea,  when  an  eastern  wind  arose, 
And  drove  us  to  this  wild  JElnean  rock; 
The    one-eyed    children    of    the    Ocean 

God, 
The  man-destroying  Cyclopses  inhabit, 
On  this  wild  shore,  their  solitary  caves, 
And  one  of    these,    named    Polypheme, 

has  caught  us 


6i6 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


To  be  his  slaves;    and  so,  for  all  delight 
Of    Bacchic    sports,    sweet    dance    and 

melody, 
We  keep  this  lawless  giant's  wandering 

flocks. 
My  sons  indeed,  on  far  declivities, 
Young  things  themselves,   tend   on    the 

youngling  sheep, 
But  I  remain  to  fill  the  water-casks, 
Or    sweeping    the  hard   floor,   or  minis- 
tering 
Some  impious  and  abominable  meal 
To  the  fell  Cyclops.     I  am  wearied  of  it  ! 
And  now  I  must  scrape  up  the  littered 

floor 
With  this  great  iron  rake,  so  to  receive 
My  absent  master  and  his  evening  sheep 
In  a  cave  neat  and  clean.     Even  now  I 

see 
My  children  tending   the   flocks  hither- 
ward. 
Ha !  what  is    this !    are   your    Sicinnian 

measures 
Even  now  the  same,  as  when  with  dance 

and  song 
You  brought  young  Bacchus  to  Althaea  s 
halls? 

C/iorus  of  Satyrs. 


Where  has  he  of  race  divine 

Wandered  in  the  winding  rocks? 
Here  the  air  is  calm  and  fine 

For  the  father  of  the  flocks;  — 
Here  the  grass  is  soft  and  sweet, 
And  the  river-eddies  meet 
In  the  trough  beside  the  cave, 
Bright  as  in  their  fountain  wave. — 
Neither  here,  nor  on  the  dew 

Of  the  lawny  uplands  feeding? 
Oh,  you  come  !  — a  stone  at  you 

Will    I    throw    to   mend    your   breed- 
ing;— 
Get  along,  you  horned  thing, 
Wild,  seditious,  rambling ! 


An  Iacchic  melody 

To  the  golden  Aphrodite 


Will  I  lift,  as  erst  did  I 

Seeking  her  and  her  delight 
With  the  Maenads,  whose  white  feet 
To  the  music  glance  and  fleet. 
Bacchus,  O  beloved,  where, 
Shaking  wide  thy  yellow  hair, 
Wanderest  thou  alone,  afar? 

To  the  one-eyed  Cyclops,  we 
Who  by  right  thy  servants  are, 

Minister  in  misery, 
In  these  wretched  goat-skins  clad, 

Far  from  thy  delights  and  thee. 


Silenus.     Be   silent,   sons;    command 
the  slaves  to  drive 

The  gathered  flocks  into  the  rock-rooft 
cave. 
Chorus.     Go !     But   what    needs   this 

serious  haste,  O  father? 
Silenus.     I   see   a  Grecian  vessel    on 
the  coast, 

And  thence  the  rowers  with  some  general 

Approaching  to  this  cave. — About  their 
necks 

Hang    empty    vessels,    as    they    wanted 
food, 

And  water-flasks. — Oh  miserable  stran- 
gers ! 

Whence  come  they  that  they  know  not 
what  and  who 

My  master  is,  approaching  in  ill  hour 

The  inhospitable  roof  of  Polypheme, 

And     the     Cyclopian     jaw-bone,     man- 
destroying? 

Be  silent,  Satyrs,  while  I  ask  and  hear 

Whence  coming,  they  arrive  the  ^Etnean 
hill. 
Ulysses.     Friends,  can  you   show   me 
some  clear  water  spring, 

The    remedy    of    our    thirst?     Will    any 
one 

Furnish  with  food  seamen  in  want  of  it? 

Ha!   what  is  this?     We   seem  to   be  ar- 
rived 

At  the  blithe   court  of  Bacchus.      I   ob- 
serve 

This   sportive    band   of    Satyrs   near   the 
caves. 

First  let  me  greet  the  elder.  —  Hail ! 
Silenus.  Hail  thou, 

O    Stranger !    tell    thy  country  and    thy 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


617 


Ulysses.     The  Ithacan  Ulysses  and  the 

king 
Of  Ophalonia. 

Silenus.  Oh  !   I  know  the  man, 

Wordy  and  shrewd,  the  son  of  Sisyphus. 

Ulysses.     I  am  the  same,  but  do   not 

rail  upon  me.  — 
Silenus.     Whence  sailing  do  you  come 

to  Sicily? 
Ulysses.     From    Ilion,    and    from    the 

Trojan  toils. 
Silenus.     How  toucht  you  not  at  your 

paternal  shore? 
Ulysses.       The    strength    of    tempests 

bore  me  here  by  force. 
Silenus.     The   self -same   accident   oc- 
curred to  me. 
Ulysses.     Were  you  then  driven  here 

by  stress  of  weather? 
Silenus.     Following   the  Pirates  who 

had  kidnapt  Bacchus. 
Ulysses.     What  land  is  this,  and  who 

inhabit  it?  — 
Silenus.     yEtna,  the    loftiest  peak  in 

Sicily. 
Ulysses.     And    are    there    walls,    and 

tower-surrounded  towns? 
Silenus.     There  are  not.  — These  lone 

rocks  are  bare  of  men. 
Ulysses.     And  who  possess   the  land? 

the  race  of  beasts? 
Silenus.     Cyclops,  who  live  in  caverns, 

not  in  houses. 
Ulysses.     Obeying  whom?     Or  is  the 

state  popular? 
Silenus.     Shepherds:     no    one    obeys 

any  in  aught. 
Ulysses.     How  live  they?  do  they  sow 

the  corn  of  Ceres? 
Si  leu  us.     On  milk  and  cheese,  and  on 

the  flesh  of  sheep. 
Ulysses.        Have     they     the     Bromian 

drink  from  the  vine's  stream? 
Silenus.     Ah  !  no;  they  live  in  an  un- 
gracious land. 
[  'lysses.      And   are  they  just  to  stran- 
gers ?  —  hospitable  ? 
Silenus.       They    think     the     sweetest 

thing  a  stranger  brings 
i  his  own  flesh. 
Ulysses.  What !  do  they 

eat  man's  flesh? 


Silenus.     No  one   comes   here  who  is 

not  eaten  up. 
Ulysses.     The    Cyclops   now  —  where 

is  he?     Not  at  home? 
Silenus.     Absent    on    yEtna,    hunting 

with  his  dogs. 
Ulysses.       Know' st    thou    what    thou 

must  do  to  aid  us  hence? 
Silenus.      I    know   not:   we  will   help 

you  all  we  can. 
Ulysses.      Provide   us   food,   of    which 

we  are  in  want. 
Silenus.     Here  is  not  anything,  as  I 

said,  but  meat. 
Ulysses.     But  meat  is  a  sweet  remedy 

for  hunger. 
Silenus.     Cow's    milk    there    is,   and 

store   of    curdled  cheese. 
Ulysses.     Bring  out :  ■ —  I  would  see  all 

before  I  bargain. 
Silenus.     But  how  much  gold  will  you 

engage  to  give? 
Ulysses.     I  bring  no  gold,  but  Bacchic 

juice. 
Silenus.  Oh  joy  ! 

'Tis  long  since  these  dry  lips  were  wet 

with  wine. 
Ulysses.     Maron,  the  son  of  the  God, 

gave  it  me. 
Silenus.     Whom  I  have  nurst  a  baby 

in  my  arms. 
Ulysses.    The  son  of  Bacchus,  for  your 

clearer  knowledge. 
Silenus.      Have  you  it  now? — or  is  it 

in  the  ship? 
Ulysses.     Old  man,  this  skin  contains 

it,  which  you  see. 
Silenus.     Why  this  would  hardly  be  p. 

mouthful  for  me. 
Ulysses.     Nay,  twice  as  much  as  y.  u 

can  draw  from  thence. 
Silenus.     You  speak  of  a  fair  founts!, 

sweet  to  me. 
Ulysses.      Would  you  first  taste  of  tl.e 

unmingled   wine? 
Silenus.     'Tis    just  —  tasting    invites 

the  purchaser. 
Ulysses.      Here    is    the    cup,   together 

with  the  skin. 
Silenus.      Pour:  that  the  draught  may 

fillip  my  remembrance. 
Ulysses.     See ! 


6z8 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


Silenus. 


Papaiax  !  what  a 


sweet  smell  it  has ! 
Ulysses.     You  see  it  then  ?  — 
Silenus.     By  Jove,  no  !  but  I  smell  it. 
Ulysses.       Taste,    that    you    may    not 

praise  it  in  words  only. 
Silenus.     Babai !    Great  Bacchus  calls 

me  forth  to  dance  ! 
Joy!  joy! 

Ulysses.  Did  it  flow  sweetly 

down  your  throat? 
Silenus.     So  that  it  tingled  to  my  very 

nails. 
Ulysses.     And  in  addition   I  will   give 

you  gold. 
Silenus.     Let  gold  alone  !  only  unlock 

the  cask. 
Ulysses.     Bring  out  some  cheeses  now, 

or  a  young  goat. 
Silenus.     That    will    I    do,    despising 

any  master. 
Yes,  let  me  drink  one  cup,  and  I  will  give 
All    that   the    Cyclops    feed   upon    their 

mountains. 

Chorus.     Ye  have  taken  Troy  and  laid 

your  hands  on  Helen? 
Ulysses.      And   utterly   destroyed    the 

race  of  Priam. 

Silenits.      The    wanton    wretch !     she 

was  bewitcht  to  see 
The  many-colored  anklets  and  the  chain 
Of  woven  gold  which  girt  the  neck  of 

Paris, 
And  so  she  left  that  good  man  Menelaus. 
There  should  be  no  more  women   in  the 

world 
But  such  as  are  reserved  for  me  alone.  — 
See,  here  are  sheep,  and  here  are  goats, 

Ulysses, 
Here    are    unsparing    cheeses    of    prest 

milk; 
Take  them;  depart  with  what  good  speed 

ye  may; 
First    leaving    my    reward,  the    Bacchic 

dew 
Of  joy-inspiring  grapes. 

Ulysses.  Ah  me  !     Alas  ! 

What    shall  we    do?    the    Cyclops  is  at 

hand  ! 
Old    man,   we    perish !    whither   can  we 

fly? 


Silenus.     Hide  yourselves  quick  with- 
in that  hollow  rock. 
Ulysses.     'T  were  perilous  to  fly  into 

the  net. 
Silenus.      The   cavern    has    recesses 
numberless; 
Hide  yourselves  quick. 

Ulysses.  That  will  I  never  do  ! 

The  mighty  Troy  would  be  indeed  dis- 
graced 
If  I   should   fly   one  man.     How   many 

times 
Have   I  withstood,  with   shield  immov- 
able, 
Ten  thousand   Phrygians! — if    I  needs 

must  die, 
Yet  will  I  die  with  glory;  —  if  I  live, 
The  praise  which   I  have  gained  will  yet 
remain. 
Silenus.     What,  ho!  assistance,  com- 
rades,, haste,  assistance! 


The  Cyclops,  Silenus,  Ulysses; 
Chorus. 

Cyclops.     What  is  this  tumult?     Bac- 
chus is  not  here, 
Nor  tympanies  nor  brazen  castanets. 
How  are  my  young  lambs  in  the  cavern? 

Milking 
Their   dams    or   playing   by  their  sides? 

And  is 
The  new  cheese   prest  into  the  bulrush 

baskets? 
Speak  !     I'll  beat  some   of  you  till  you 

rain  tears  — 
Look  up,  not  downwards  when  I  speak 
to  you. 
Silenus.     See  !  I  now  gape  at  Jupiter 
himself, 
I  stare  upon  Orion  and  the  stars. 

Cyclops.       Well,    is    the    dinner    fitly 

cookt  and  laid? 
Silenus.     All  ready,  if  your  throat  is 

ready  too. 
Cyclops.     Are  the  bowls  full  of  milk 

besides? 
Silenus.  O'er-brimming; 

So  you  may  drink  a  tunful  if  you  will. 
Cyclops.      Is    it  ewe's  milk    or   cow's 

milk,  or  both  mixt?  — 
Silenus.       Both,     either;     only    pray 
don't  swallow  me. 


THE   CYCLOPS. 


619 


Cyclops.     By  no  means.  

What    is    this    crowd    I    see    beside    the 

stalls? 
Outlaws  or  thieves?  for  near  my  cavern- 
home, 
I  see   my  young   lambs  coupled  two   by 

two 
With  willow  bands;  mixt  with  my  cheeses 

lie 
Their  implements;    and  this  old  fellow 

here 
Has  his  bald  head  broken  with  stripes. 

Si le n  us.  Ah  me  ! 

I  have  been  beaten  till  I  burn  with  fever. 

Cyclops.     By    whom?     Who    laid    his 

fist  upon  your  head? 
Silenus.     Those  men,  because  I  would 

not  suffer  them 
To  steal  your  goods. 

Cyclops.  Did  not  the  rascals 

know 
I  am  a  God,   sprung   from  the   race   of 

heaven? 
Silenus.     I  told  them  so,  but  they  bore 

off  your  things, 
And  ate  the  cheese  in  spite  of  all  I  said, 
And  carried  out  the   lambs  —  and  said, 

moreover, 
They'd  pin  you  down  with  a  three-cubit 

collar, 
And  pull  your  vitals  out  thro'  your  one 

eye, 
Torture  your  back  with  stripes,  then  bind- 
ing you, 
Throw  you  as  ballast  into  the  ship's  hold, 
And  then  deliver  you,  a  slave,  to  move 
Enormous  rocks,  or  found  a  vestibule. 
Cyclops.      In   truth?     Nay,  haste,  and 

place  in  order  quickly 
The  cooking  knives,  and  heap  upon  the 

hearth, 
And  kindle  it,  a  great  faggot  of  wood  — 
As    soon    as  they  are   slaughtered,  they 

shall  fill 
My   belly,  broiling  warm  from  the   live 

coals, 
Or  boiled   and   seethed  within  the  bub- 
bling caldron. 
I    am  quite   sick    of    the  wild   mountain 

game, 
Of  stags  and  lions  I  have  gorged  enough, 
And  I  grow  hungry  for  the  flesh  of  men. 


Silenus.     Nay,  master,  something  new 

is  very  pleasant 
After  one  thing  forever,  and  of  late 
Very  few  strangers  have   approacht   ouf 

cave. 
Ulysses.      Hear,  Cyclops,  a  plain  tale 

on  the  other  side. 
We,  wanting  to  buy  food,  came  from  our 

ship 
Into  the  neighborhood  of  your  cave,  and 

here 
This  old  Silenus  gave  us  in  exchange 
These  lambs  for  wine,  the  which  he  took 

and  drank, 
And  all  by  mutual  compact,  without  force. 
There    is  no  word  of    truth  in  what  he 

says, 
For  slyly  he  was  selling  all  your  store. 
Silenus.        I?       May       you       perish, 

wretch  — 
Ulysses.  If  I  speak  false  ! 

Silenus.     Cyclops,   I    swear  by  Nep- 
tune who  begot  thee, 
By  mighty  Triton  and  by  Nereus  old, 
Calypso  and  the  glaucous  ocean  Nymphs, 
The    sacred  waves  and   all   the  race   ot 

fishes  — 
Be   these  the  witnesses,  my  dear  sweet 

master, 
My  darling  little  Cyclops,  that  I  never 
Gave   any  of  your  stores  to  these   false 

strangers;  — 
If  I  speak  false  may  those  whom  most  I 

love, 
j  My  children,  perish  wretchedly  ! 

Chorus.  There  stop  ! 

I  I  saw  him    giving    these    things    to   the 

strangers. 
If    I    speak    false    then    may  my    father 

perish, 
But  do  not  thou  wrong  hospitality. 

Cyclops.     You  lie!     I  swear  that  he  is 

juster  far  • 

Than    Rhadamanthus — I   trust  more  in 

him. 
But  let  me  ask,  whence  have  ye  sailed, 

O  strangers? 
Who  are   you?     And  what  city  nourisht 

ye? 
Ulysses.     Our  race  is  Ithacan  —  having 

destroyed 
The  town  of  Troy,  the  tempests  of  the 

sea 


620 


TRANS  LA  770  NS. 


Have    driven  us   on   thy  land,   O   Poly- 

pheme. 
Cyclops.     What,  have  ye  shared  in  the 

unenvied  spoil 
Of    the  false    Helen,   near   Scamander's 

stream  ? 
Ulysses.     The  same,  having  endured  a 

woful  toil. 
Cyclops.     Oh,  basest  expedition  !  sailed 

ye  not 
From  Greece  to  Phrygia  for  one  woman's 

sake? 
Ulysses.     'T  was  the  Gods'  work  —  no 

mortal  was  in  fault. 
But,    O   great    offspring    of    the   ocean- 
king, 
We  pray  thee   and  admonish  thee   with 

freedom, 
That    thou    dost   spare   thy  friends  who 

visit  thee, 
And  place   no   impious   food  within  thy 

jaws. 
For    in    the  depths  of    Greece  we  have 

upreared 
Temples   to  thy  great  father,  which  are 

all 
His  homes.     The  sacred  bay  of  Taenarus 
Remains  inviolate,  and  each  dim  recess 
Scoopt  high  on  the  Malean  promontory, 
And  airy  Sunium's  silver-veined  crag, 
Which  divine   Pallas   keeps   unprofaned 

ever, 
The  Gerastian  asylums,  and  whate'er 
Within  wide  Greece  our  enterprise  has 

kept 
From  Phrygian  contumely;  and  in  which 
You  have  a  common  care,  for  you  inhabit 
The    skirts  of  Grecian  land,   under   the 

roots 
Of  JExm.  and  its  crags,  spotted  with  fire. 
Turn    them    to    converse    under    human 

laws, 
Receive   us    shiptfreckt    suppliants,   and 

provide 
Food,  clothes,   and  fire,   and  hospitable 

gifts; 
Nor  fixing  upon  oxen-piercing  spits 
Our   limbs,   so   fill    your   belly  and  your 

jaws. 
Priam's  wide   land  has  widowed  Greece 

enough; 
And   weapon-winged    murder    heapt   to- 
gether 


Enough  of  dead,  and  wives  are  husband- 
less, 
And    ancient    women    and    gray    fathers 

wail 
Their  childless  age; — if  you  should  roast 

the  rest, 
And  't  is  a  bitter  feast  that  you  prepare, 
Where   then   would   any  turn?     Yet  be 

persuaded; 
Forego  the  lust  of  your  jaw-bone;  prefer 
Pious  humanity  to  wicked  will: 
Many  have    bought    too  dear   their    evil 

joys. 
Silenus.     Let  me  advise  you,  do  not 

spare  a  morsel 
Of   all  his  flesh.     If  you  should  eat  his 

tongue 
You   would    become    most   eloquent,    O 

Cyclops. 
Cyclops.     Wealth,  my  good  fellow,  is 

the  wise  man's  God, 
All    other    things    are  a    pretence    and 

boast. 
What  are  my  father's  ocean  promontories, 
The  sacred  rocks  whereon  he  dwells,  to 

me? 
Stranger,  I  laugh  to  scorn  Jove's  thunder- 
bolt, 
I  know  not  that  his  strength  is  more  than 

mine. 
As    to  the    rest  I   care  not: — When    he 

pours 
Rain  from  above,  I  have  a  close  pavilion 
Under  this  rock,  in  which  I  lie  supine, 
Feasting  on   a    roast   calf    or   some  wild 

beast, 
And  drinking    pans  of    milk,   and   glori- 
ously 
Emulating  the  thunder  of  high  heaven. 
And  when  theThracian  wind  pours  down 

the  snow, 
I  wrap  my  body  in  the  skins  of  beasts, 
Kindle  a  fire,  and  bid  the  snow  whirl  on. 
The   earth,   by  force,  whether  it   will   or 

no, 
Bringing    forth    grass,   fattens   my  flocks 

and   herds, 
Which,  to  what  other  God  but  to  myself 
And  this  great  belly,  first  of  deities, 
Should   I  be  bound  to  sacrifice?     I  well 

know 
The  wise  man's  only  Jupiter  is  this, 
To  eat  and  drink  during  his  little  day, 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


621 


And  give  himself  no  care.     And  as  for 

those 
Who  complicate  with    laws    the    life  of 

man, 
I  freely  give  them  tears  for  their  reward. 
I  will  not  cheat  my  soul  of  its  delight, 
Or  hesitate  in  dining  upon  you:  — 
And  that  I  may  be  quit  of  all  demands, 
These    are   my   hospitable  gifts;  —  fierce 

fire 
And  yon  ancestral  caldron,  which  o'cr- 

bubbling 
Shall  finely  cook  your  miserable  flesh. 
Creep  in  !  — 

L'lysses.     Ai !  ai !   I  have  escaped  the 

Trojan  toils, 
I  have  escaped  the  sea,  and  now  I  fall 
Under   the  cruel   grasp   of   one   impious 

man. 
O  Pallas,  mistress,  Goddess,  sprung  from 

Jove, 
Now,    now,   assist    me !     Mightier    toils 

than  Troy 
Are   these; — I   totter  on  the  chasms  of 

peril;  — 
And  thou  who  inhabitest  the  thrones 
Of  the  bright  stars,  look,  hospitable  Jove, 
Upon  this  outrage  of  thy  deity, 
Otherwise  be  considered  as  no  God  ! 

Chorus  (alone). 
For  your  gaping  gulf,  and  your  gullet  wide 
The  ravin  is  ready  on  every  side, 
The  limbs  of  the  strangers  are  cookt  and 
done, 
There  is  boiled  meat,  and  roast  meat, 
and  meat  from  the  coal, 
You  may  chop  it,  and  tear  it,  and  gnash 
it  for  fun, 
An     hairy    goat's-skin    contains     the 
whole. 
Let  me  but  escape,  and  ferry  me  o'er 
The    stream   of    your    wrath    to  a  safer 

shore, 
The  Cyclops  ^tnean  is  cruel  and  bold, 
He  murders  the  strangers 
That  sit  on  his  hearth, 
And  dreads  no  avengers 
To  rise  from  the  earth. 
He  roasts  the  men  before  they  are  cold. 
He  snatches  them  broiling  from  the  coal, 
And  from  the  caldron  pulls  them  whole, 


And  minces  their  flesh  and  gnaws  their 

bone 
With  his  cursed  teeth,  till  all  be  gone. 
Farewell,  foul  pavilion: 

Farewell,  rites  of  dread  ! 
The  Cyclops  vermilion, 

With  slaughter  uncloying, 
Now  feasts  on  the  dead, 

In  the  flesh  of  strangers  joying  ! 
Ulysses.      O    Jupiter !     I    saw    within 
the  cave 
Horrible  things;    deeds  to  be  feigned  in 

words, 
But  not  to  be  believed  as  being  done. 
Chorus.     What !  sawest  thou  the  im- 
pious Polypheme 
Feasting    upon    your   loved   companions 
now? 
l'lysses.     Selecting  two,  the  plumpest 
of  the  crowd, 
He  graspt  them  in  his  hands. — 

Chorus.  Unhappy  man  ! 

Ulysses.     Soon   as  we  came  into  this 

craggy  place, 
Kindling   a    fire,  he  cast  on  the   broad 

hearth 
The  knotty  limbs  of  an  enormous  oak, 
Three  waggon-loads  at  least,   and  then 

he  strewed 
Upon  the    ground,   beside   the  red  fire- 
light, 
His  couch  of  pine  leaves;  and    he  milkt 

the  cows, 
And    pouring  forth  the  white  milk,  filled 

a  bowl 
Three  cubits  wide  and   four  in  depth,  as 

much 
As    would    contain     ten    amphorce,    and 

bound  it 
With  ivy  wreaths;    then  placed  upon  the 

fire 
A  bra/en  pot  to  boil,  and  made  red  hot 
The  points  of  spits,  not  sharpened  with 

the  sickle, 
Rut   with  a   fruit    tree   bough,  and  with 

the  jaws 
Of  axes  for  /F.tnean  slaughterings.1 
And  when  this  God -abandoned  cook  of 

hell 
Had  made  all  ready,  he  seized  two  of  uj 

1   I  confess  I  do  not  understand  this. 


622 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And  killed  them  in  a  kind  of  measured 

manner; 
For   he    flung   one    against    the    brazen 

rivets 
Of    the   huge    caldron,    and   seized    the 

other 
By  the   foot's  tendon,    and    knockt  out 

his  brains 
Upon  the  sharp  edge  of  the  craggy  stone  : 
Then  peeled  his  flesh  with  a  great  cook- 
ing-knife 
And  put  him  down  to  roast.      The  other's 

limbs 
He  chopt  into  the  caldron  to  be  boiled. 
And  I,  with  the  tears  raining  from  my 

eyes, 
Stood    near  the  Cyclops,  ministering  to 

him; 
The  rest,  in  the  recesses  of  the  cave, 
Clung  to  the    rock   like  bats,   bloodless 

with  fear. 
When  he  was  filled  with  my  companions' 

flesh, 
He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  and 

sent 
A  loathsome  exhalation  from  his  maw. 
Then  a  divine  thought  came  to  me.     I 

filled 
The  cup  of  Maron,  and  I  offered  him 
To    taste,    and   said:  —  "Child    of     the 

Ocean  God, 
Behold  what  drink  the  vines  of  Greece 

produce, 
The  exultation  and  the  joy  of  Bacchus." 
He,  satiated  with  his  unnatural  food, 
Received  it,  and  at  one  draught  drank  it 

off, 
And    taking    my    hand,    praised    me:  — 

"Thou  hast  given 
A  sweet  draught  after  a  sweet  meal,  dear 

guest." 
And   I   perceiving   that   it   pleased  him, 

filled 
Another  cup,  well  knowing  that  the  wine 
Would  wound  him  soon  and  take  a  sure 

revenge. 
And  the  charm  fascinated  him,  and  I 
Plied  him  cup  after  cup,  until  the  drink 
Had   warmed  his   entrails,  and  he  sang 

aloud 
In  concert  with  my  wailing  fellow-seamen 
\    hideous    discord  —  and    the    cavern 

rung. 


I  have  stolen  out,  so  that  if  you  will 
You    may  achieve    my  safety  and   yom 

own. 
But  say,  do  you  desire,  or  not,  to  fly 
This  uncompanionable  man,  and  dwell 
As  was   your  wont  among  the  Grecian 

Nymphs 
Within  the  fanes  of  your  beloved  God? 
Your  father  there  within  agrees  to  it, 
But  he  is  weak  and  overcome  with  wine, 
And  caught  as  if  with  bird-lime  by  the 

cup, 
He  claps  his  wings  and  crows  in  doting 

joy. 
You  who  are  young  escape  with  me,  and 

find 
Bacchus  your  ancient  friend;  unsuited  he 
To  this  rude  Cyclops. 

Chorus.  Oh  my  dearest  friend, 

That  I  could  see  that  day,  and  leave  for- 
ever 
The  impious  Cyclops. 

Ulysses.     Listen  then  what  a  punish- 
ment I  have 
For  this  fell  monster,  how  secure  a  flight 
From  your  hard  servitude. 

Chorus.  O  sweeter  far 

Than  is  the  music  of  an  Asian  lyre 
Would  be  the   news  of   Polypheme  de- 
stroyed. 
Ulysses.     Delighted  with  the  Bacchic 
drink  he  goes 
To    call    his  brother   Cyclops  —  who   in- 
habit 
A  village  upon  ^Etna  not  far  off. 

Chorus.     I  understand,  catching  him 
when  alone 
You  think  by  some  measure  to  dispatch 

him, 
Or  thrust  him  from  the  precipice. 

Ulysses.  Oh  no: 

Nothing    of    that    kind;     my    device    is 
subtle. 
Chorus.      How  then?   I  heard  of  old 

that  thou  wert  wise. 
Ulysses.      I    will    dissuade    him   from 
this  plan,  by  saying 
It  were  unwise  to  give  the  Cyclopses 
This    precious  drink,    which    if    enjoyed 

alone 
Would  make   life   sweeter  for  a   longei 
time. 


THE   CYC  LOTS. 


621 


When  vanquisht  by  the  Bacchic  power, 

he  sleeps, 
There  is  a  trunk  of  olive  wood  within, 
Whose    point    having    made   sharp  with 

this  good  sword 
I  will  conceal  in  fire,  and  when  I  see 
It  is  alight,  will  fix  it,  burning  yet, 
Within  the  socket  of  the  Cyclops'  eye 
And   melt  it  out  with  fire  —  as  when  a 

man 
Turns  by  its  handle  a  great  augur  round, 
Fitting    the    framework    of    a  ship  with 

beams, 
So  will  I,  in  the  Cyclops'  fiery  eye 
Turn  round  the  brand  and  dry  the   pupil 

up. 
Chorus.     Joy  !   I   am  mad  with  joy  at 

your  device. 
Ulysses.      And    then    with     you,    my 

friends,  and  the  old  man, 
We  '11  load  the  hollow  depth  of  our  black 

ship, 
And  row  with  double  strokes   from  this 

dread  shore. 
Chorus.     May  I,  as  in   libations  to  a 

God, 
Share  in  the  blinding  him  with  the  red 

brand? 
I  would    have    some  communion  in   his 

death. 
Ulysses.      Doubtless:    the    brand  is  a 

great  brand  to  hold. 
Chorus.     Oh  !    I  would  lift  a  hundred 

wagon-loads, 
If  like  a  wasp's  nest  I  could  scoop  the 

eye  out 
Of  the  detested  Cyclops. 

Ulysses.  Silence  now  ! 

Ve  know  the  close  device  —  and  when  I 

call, 
Look  ye  obey  the  masters  of  the  craft. 
I  will  not  save  myself  and  leave  behind 
My  comrades  in   the   cave :    I  might    es- 
cape, 
Having     got    clear     from     that    obscure 

recess, 
But  't  were  unjust  to  leave  in  jeopardy 
The    dear   companions  who    sailed  here 

with  me. 

Chorus. 
Come  !   who  is  first,  that  with  his  hand 
Will  urge  down  the  burning  brand 


Thro'  the  lids,  and  quench  and  pierce 
The  Cyclops'  eye  so  fiery  fierce? 

Semichorus  I.      {Song  within.) 

Listen  !   listen  !   he  is  coming, 

A  most  hideous  discord  humming. 

Drunken,  museless,  awkward,  yelling, 

Far  along  his  rocky  dwelling; 

Let  us  with  some  comic  spell 
Teach  the  yet  unteachable. 
By  all  means  he  must  be  blinded, 
If  my  council  be  but  minded. 

Semichorus  II. 

Happy  those  made  odorous 

With  the  dew  which  sweet  grapes 
weep, 
To  the  village  hastening  thus, 

Seek  the  vines  that  soothe  to  sleep, 
Having  first  embraced  thy  friend, 
There  in  luxury  without  end, 
With  the  strings  of  yellow  hair, 
Of  thy  voluptuous  leman  fair, 
Shalt  sit  playing  on  a  bed  !  — 
Speak  what  door  is  opened? 

Cyclops. 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  I'm  full  of  wine, 
Heavy  with  the  joy  divine, 
With  the  young  feast  oversated, 
Like  a  merchant's  vessel  freighted 
To  the  water's  edge,  my  crop 
Is  laden  to  the  gullet's  top. 
The  fresh  meadow  grass  of  spring 
Tempts  me  forth  thus  wandering 
To  my  brothers  on  the  mountains,  • 
Who  shall    share   the  wine's  swee< 
fountains. 
Bring  the  cask,  O  stranger,  bring! 

Chorus. 

One  with  eyes  the  fairest 
Cometh  from  his  dwelling, 

Some  one  loves  thee,  rarest, 
Bright  beyond  my  telling. 

In  thy  grace  thou  shinest 

Like  some  nymph  divinest, 

In  her  caverns  dewy:  — 

All  delights  pursue  thee, 

Soon  pied  flowers,  sweet-breathing, 

Shall  thy  head  be  wreathing. 


624 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


Ulysses.     Listen,  O  Cyclops,  for  I  am 
well  skilled 
In   Bacchus,    whom   I  gave    thee  of   to 

drink. 
Cyclops.     What  sort  of  God  is  Bacchus 

then  accounted? 
Ulysses.     The  greatest  among  men  for 

joy  of  life. 
Cyclops.     I  gulpt  him  down  with  very 

great  delight. 
Ulysses.     This  is  a  God  who  never  in- 
jures men. 
Cyclops.     How  does  the  God  like  liv- 
ing in  a  skin? 
Ulysses.     He  is  content  wherever  he  is 

put. 
Cyclops.     Gods  should  not  have  their 

body  in  a  skin. 
Ulysses.     If  he  gives  joy  what  is  his 

skin  to  you? 
Cyclops.     I  hate  the  skin,  but  love  the 

wine  within. 
Ulysses.     Stay  here,   now  drink,   and 

make  your  spirit  glad. 
Cyclops.     Should     I    not    share     this 

liquor  with  my  brothers? 
Ulysses.     Keep    it    yourself,    and    be 

more  honored  so. 
Cyclops.     I  were  more  useful  giving  to 

my  friends. 
Ulysses.     But    village     mirth     breeds 

contests,  broils,  and  blows. 
Cyclops.     When    I    am    drunk    none 

shall  lay  hands  on  me.  — 
Ulysses.     A   drunken    man    is    better 

within  doors. 
.  Cyclops.      He  is  a  fool,  who  drinking, 

loves  not  mirth. 
Ulysses.      But  he  is  wise,  who   drunk, 

remains  at  home. 
Cyclops.      What  shall    I   do,    Silenus? 

Shall  I  stay? 
Silenus.      Stay  —  for  what    need  have 

you  of  pot  companions? 
Cyclops.     Indeed  this   place   is  closely 

carpeted 
With  flowers  and  grass. 

Silenus.  And    in    the    sun- warm 

noon 
T  is  sweet  to  drink.      Lie   down   beside 

me  now, 
Placing    your     mighty    sides    upon    the 
ground. 


Cyclops.     What  do    you  put  the  cup 

behind  me  for? 
Silenus.     That     no    one     here     may 

touch  it. 
Cyclops.  Thievish  one  \ 

You  want  to  drink; — here   place    it   in 

the  midst. 
And  thou,  O  stranger,  tell  how  art  thou 

called? 
Ulysses.     My  name  is  Nobody.     What 

favor  now 
Shall   I  receive    to    praise    you  at   your 

hands? 
Cyclops.     I'll  feast  on  you  the  last  of 

your  companions. 
Ulysses.     You  grant  your  guest  a  fair 

reward,  O  Cyclops. 
Cyclops.     Ha!   what  is  this?    Stealing 

the  wine,  you  rogue  ! 
Silenus.     It  was  this  stranger  kissing 

me  because 
I  looked  so  beautiful. 

Cyclops.  You  shall  repent 

For  kissing  the  coy  wine  that   loves  you 

not. 
Silenus.     By  Jupiter!  you  said  that  I 

am  fair. 
Cyclops.      Pour  out,  and  only  give  me 

the  cup  full. 
Silenus.       How   is    it    mixt?    let    me 

observe. 
Cyclops.  Curse  you  ! 

Give  it  me  so. 

Silenus.  Not  till  I  see  you  wear 

That  coronal,  and  taste  the  cup  to  you. 
Cyclops.     Thou  wily  traitor  ! 
Silenus.  But  the  wine  is  sweet. 

Ay,  you  will  roar  if  you    are    caught    in 

drinking. 
Cyclops.     See  now,    my    lip    is    clean 

and  all  my  beard. 
Silenus.     Now  put    your   elbow   right 

and  drink  again. 
As  you  see  me  drink  — ■  .   .   . 
Cyclops.     How  now? 
Silenus.  Ye  Gods,  what 

a  delicious  gulp  ! 
Cyclops.     Guest,   take  it;  —  you    pour 

out  the  wine  for  me. 
Ulysses.     The  wine  is  well  accustomed 

to  my  hand. 
Cyclops.      Pour  out  the  wine  ! 
Ulysses.  I  pour;    only  be  silent. 


THE   CYCLOPS. 


625 


Cyclops.     Silence  is  a  hard  task  to  him 

who  drinks. 
Ulysses.      Take    it   and    drink    it    off; 
leave  not  a  dreg. 
Oh,  that  the  drinker   died   with  his   own 
draught ! 
Cyclops,      l'apai !   the  vine  must  be  a 

sapient  plant. 
Ulysses.      If  you    drink  much   after   a 
mighty  feast, 
Moistening   your  thirsty   maw,  you   will 

sleep  well; 
It  you  leave  aught,  Bacchus  will  dry  you 
up. 
Cyclops.     Ho  !  ho  !   I  can  scarce  rise. 
What  pure  delight ! 
The  heavens  and  earth   appear   to  whirl 

about 
Confusedly.      I  see  the  throne  of  Jove 
And  the  clear  congregation  of   the  Gods. 
Now  if   the  Graces  tempted  me  to  kiss 
I  would  not,  for  the  loveliest  of  them  all 
I  would  not  leave  this  Ganymede. 
Silenus.  Polypheme, 

I  am  the  Ganymede  of  Jupiter. 

Cyclops.     By   Jove     you   are;     I   bore 
you  off  from  Dardanus. 

Ulysses  and  the  Chorus 

Uh'sses.     Come,     boys     of     Bacchus, 

children  of  high  race, 
This  man  within  is  folded  up  in  sleep, 
And  soon  will  vomit    flesh   from    his   fell 

maw: 
The  brand  under  the  shed  thrusts  out  its 

smoke, 
No  preparation  needs,  but  to  burn  out 
The  monster's  eye;  —  but  bear  yourselves 

like  men. 
Chorus.      We    will   have    courage  like 

the  adamant  rock, 
All  things  are  ready  for  you  here;    go  in, 
Before  our  father  shall  perceive  the  noise. 
Ulysses.      Vulcan,  /Etnean  king  !   burn 

out  with  fire 
The  shining  eye  of  this  thy  neighboring 

monster  ! 
And   thou,  O  sleep,  nursling  of    gloomy 

night, 
Descend  unmixt  on  this  God-hated  beast, 
And  suffer  not  Ulysses  and  his  comrades, 
Returning  from  their  famous  Trojan  toils,    1 


To   perish    by    this    man,    who   cares  not 

either 
For  God    or    mortal;    or    I    needs    must 

think 
That  Chance  is  a  supreme  divinity, 
And    things    divine    are    subject    to    her 

power. 

Chorus. 

Soon  a  crab  the  throat  will  seize 

Of  him  who  feeds  upon  his  guest, 
Fire  will  burn  his  lamp-like  eyes 

In  revenge  of  such  a  feast ! 
A  great  oak  stump  now  is  lying 
In  the  ashes  yet  undying. 
Come,  Maron,  come! 
Raging  let  him  fix  the  doom, 
Let  him  tear  the  eyelid  up 
Of   the  Cyclops —  that  his  cup 

May  be  evil! 
Oh  !   I  long  to  dance  and  revel 
With  sweet  Bromian,  long  desired, 
In  loved  ivy  wreaths  attired; 
Leaving  this  abandoned  home  — 
Will  the  moment  ever  come? 
Ulysses.     Be  silent,    ye    wild    things: 
Nay,  hold  your  peace, 
And  keep  your  lips  quite  close;    dare  not 

to  breathe, 
Or  spit,  or  e'en  wink   lest  ye   wake  the 

monster, 
Until  his  eye  be  tortured  out  with  fire. 
Chorus.     Nay,  we  are  silent,  and  we 

chaw  the  air. 
Ulysses.     Come  now,  and  lend  a  hand 
to  the  great  stake 
Within- —  it  is  delightfully  red  hot. 

Chorus.     You  then  command  who  first 
should  seize  the  stake 
To  burn  the   Cyclops'   eye,  that   all  may 

share 
In  the  great  enterprise. 

Sem  ichor  us  I.  We  are  too  far, 

We  cannot  at  this  distance  from  the  door 
Thrust  fire  into  his  eye. 

Se in iik or us  II.  And  we  just  now 

Have  become  lame;    cannot  move  hand 
or  foot. 
Chorus.     The  same  thing  has  occurred 
to  us,  —  our  ankles 
Are  sprained  with  standing  here,  I  know 
not  how. 


626 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


Ulysses.     What,  sprained  with  stand- 
ing still? 
Chorus.  And  there  is  dust 

Or  ashes  in  our  eyes,  I  know  not  whence. 
Ulysses.     Cowardly  dogs  !  ye  will  not 

aid  me  then? 
Chorus.     With   pitying   my  own  back 
and  my  back  bone, 
And    with    not    wishing     all    my    teeth 

knockt  out, 
This  cowardice  comes  of  itself  —  but  stay, 
I  know  a  famous  Orphic  incantation 
To    make    the    brand    stick    of    its    own 

accord 
Into  the   skull   of  this   one-eyed  son  of 
Earth. 
Ulysses.     Of  old   I  knew  ye  thus  by 
nature;    now 
I  know  ye  better.  — I  will  use  the  aid 
Of  my  own  comrades  —  Yet  tho'  weak  of 

hand 
Speak  cheerfully,  that  so  ye  may  awaken 
The  courage  of    my  friends    with    your 
blithe  words. 
Chorus.     This  I  will  do  with  peril  of 
my  life, 
And   blind    you    with    my    exhortations, 
Cyclops. 

Hasten  and  thrust, 
And  parch  up  to  dust, 
The  eye  of  the  beast, 
Who  feeds  on  his  guest. 
Burn  and  blind 
The  yEtnean  hind  ! 
Scoop  and  draw, 
But  beware  lest  he  claw 
Your  limbs  near  his  maw. 
Cyclops.     Ah     me !     my    eyesight    is 

parcht    up    to    cinders. 
Chorus.     What   a  sweet   paean !    sing 

me  that    again  ! 
Cyclops.     Ah  me  !   indeed,  what  woe 
has    fallen    upon    me ! 
But  wretched  nothings,  think  ye  not   to 

flee 
Out  of  this  rock;    I,  standing  at  the  out- 
let, 
Will  bar  the  way  and  catch  you  as  you 
pass. 
Chorus.     What  are   you   roaring  out, 

Cyclops? 
Cyclops.  I  perish  ! 

Chorus.      For  you  arc  wicked. 


Cyclops.  And  besides  miserable. 

Chorus.     What,  did  you   fall  into  the 

fire  when  drunk? 
Cyclops.     'T  was     Nobody    destroyed 

me. 
Chorus.  Why  then  no  one 

Can  be  to  blame. 

Cyclops.  I  say  't  was  Nobody 

Who  blinded  me. 

Chorus.  Why  then  you  are  not 

blind. 
Cyclops.     I  wish  you  were  as  blind  as 

I  am. 
Chorus.  Nay, 

It  cannot  be  that  no  one  made  you  blind. 
Cyclops.     You  jeer  me;    where,  I  ask, 

is  Nobody? 
Chorus.     Nowhere,  O  Cyclops. 
Cyclops.      It  was  that    stranger  ruined 
me  : —  the  wretch 
First  gave  me  wine  and  then  burnt  out 

my  eye, 
For  wine  is  strong  and  hard  to  struggle 

with. 
Have    they    escaped,    or    are     they   yet 
within? 
Chorus.     They  stand  under  the  dark- 
ness of  the  rock 
And  cling  to  it. 

Cyclops.  At  my  right  hand 

or  left? 
Chorus.     Close  on  your  right. 
Cyclops.  Where  ? 

Chorus.  Near  the  rock  itself. 

You  have  them. 

Cyclops.  Oh,  misfortune  on 

misfortune  ! 
I've  crackt  my  skull. 

Chorus.  Now  they  escape  you 

there. 
Cyclops.     Not  there,  altho'  you  say  so. 
Chorus.  Not  on  that  side. 

Cyclops.     Where  then? 
Chorus.  They  creep  about 

you  on  your  left. 
Cyclops.       Ah !    I   am     mockt !    They 

jeer  me  in  my  ills. 
Chorus.     Not   there !      he    is  a    little 

there  beyond  you. 
Cyclops.     Detested  wretch  !  where  are 

you? 
Ulysses.  Far  from  you 

I  keep  with  care  this  body  of  Ulysses. 


TO   STELLA. 


627 


Cyclops.     What    do    you    say?      You 

proffer  a  new  name. 
Ulysses.     My   father    named   mc    so; 

and  I  have  taken 
A  full  revenge  for  your  unnatural  feast; 
I  should  have  done   ill  to    have  burned 

down  Troy 
And    not    revenged   the    murder  of    my 

comrades. 
Cyclops.     Ai !  ai !    the  ancient  oracle 

is  accomplisht; 
It  said  that   I  should  have  my  eyesight 

blinded 
By  you  coming   from  Troy,  yet  it  fore- 
told 
That  you  should  pay  the  penalty  for  this 
By  wandering    long    over    the    homeless 

sea. 
Ulysses.     I  bid  thee  weep  —  consider 

what  I  say, 
I  go  towards  the  shore  to  drive  my  ship 
To    mine    own    land,    o'er    the    Sicilian 

wave. 
Cyclops.     Not    so,    if    whelming    you 

with  this    huge    stone 
I  can  crush  you   and  all    your    men    to- 
gether; 
I  will  descend  upon  the  shore,  tho'  blind, 
Groping  my  way  adown  the  steep  ravine. 
Chorus.     And  we,   the    shipmates  of 

Ulysses  now, 
Will  serve  our  Bacchus   all    our    happy 

lives. 

EPIGRAMS. 
I.— TO   STELLA. 

FROM    THE   GREEK   OF    PLATO. 

Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the 
living, 
Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled;  — 
Now,  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus, 
giving 
New  splendor  to  the  dead. 

II. —KISSING   HELENA. 

FROM    THE    GREEK    OF    PLATO. 

Kissing  Helena,  together 

With  my  kiss,  my  soul  beside  it 


Came  to  my  lips,  and  there    I  kept 
it,— 
For  the  poor  thing  had  wandered  thither, 
To  follow  where  the  kiss  should  guide 
it, 
Oh,  cruel  I,  to  intercept  it! 

III. —SPIRIT  OF   PLATO. 

FROM   THE   GREEK. 

Eagle  !    why  soarest    thou    above    that 

tomb? 
To  what  sublime  and  star-ypaven  home 

Floatest  thou? 
"  I  am  the  image  of  swift  Plato's  spirit, 
Ascending  heaven  —  Athens  doth  inherit 
His  corpse  below." 

IV.  —CIRCUMSTANCE. 

FROM    THE   GREEK. 

A  MAN  who  was  about  to  hang  himself, 
Finding  a  purse,  then  threw  away  his 
rope; 
The  owner,  coming  to  reclaim  his  pelf, 
The  halter  found  and  used  it.     So  is 
Hope 
Changed    for    Despair  —  one    laid  upon 
the  shelf, 
We  take  the  other.     Under  heaven's 
high  cope 
Fortune  is  God — all  you  endure  and  do 
Depends    on    circumstance    as    much    as 
you. 

FRAGMENT  OF  THE  ELEGY  ON 
THE  DEATH  OF  ADONIS. 

FROM    THE   GREEK   OF    BION. 

I        mourn     Adonis      dead  —  loveliest 

Adonis  — 
Dead,    dead    Adonis  —  and    the     Loves 

lament. 
Sleep  no  more,  Venus,  wrapt  in   purple 

woof  — 
Wake,  violet-stoled    queen,  and    weave 

the  crown 
Of  Death,  —  't  is  Misery  calls,  —  for  he 

is  dead. 


628 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


The    lovely  one  lies  wounded  in  the 

mountains, 
His  white  thigh    struck  with  the  white 

tooth;  he  scarce 
Yet  breathes;  and  Venus  hangs  in  agony 

there. 
The  dark  blood  wanders  o'er  his  snowy 

limbs, 
His  eyes  beneath  their  lids  are  lustreless, 
The  rose  has  fled  from  his  wan  lips,  and 

there 
That  kiss  is  dead,  which  Venus  gathers 

yet. 

A  deep  deep  wound  Adonis  .   .   . 

A  deeper  Venus  bears  upon  her  heart. 

See,    his    beloved    dogs    are    gathering 

round  — 
The    Oread     nymphs     are     weeping  — 

Aphrodite 
With  hair   unbound   is  wandering  thro' 

the  woods, 
Wildered,      ungirt,     unsandalled  —  the 

thorns    pierce 
Her  hastening  feet  and  drink  her  sacred 

blood. 
Bitterly  screaming  out  she  is  driven  on 
Thro'  the  long  vales;    and  her  Assyrian 

boy, 
Her  love,  her  husband  calls  — The  purple 

blood 
From  his  struck   thigh  stains  her  white 

navel  now, 
Her   bosom,   and    her   neck   before   like 

snow. 

Alas  for  Cytherea — the  Loves  mourn — 
The  lovely,  the   beloved  is   gone  —  and 

now 
Her  sacred  beauty  vanishes  away. 
For  Venus  whilst  Adonis  lived  was  fair  — 
Alas  her  loveliness  is  dead  with  him. 
The  oaks  and  mountains  cry   "  Ai !   ai  ! 

Adonis  !  " 
The  springs  their  waters  changed  to  tears 

and  weep  — 
The     flowers     are     withered     up     with 

grief  .   .   . 

Ai !  ai !  Adonis  is  dead 

Echo  resounds  Adonis  dead. 

Who  will  weep  *ot  thy  dreadful  woe,  O 
Venus? 


Soon  as  she  saw  and  knew  the  mortal 
wound 

Of  her  Adonis  —  saw  the  life-blood  flow 

From  his  fair  thigh,  now  wasting,  wail- 
ing loud 

She  claspt  him  and  cried  "  Stay, 

Adonis  ! 

Stay  dearest  one,    .   .    . 

and  mix  my  lips  with  thine  — 

Wake  yet  a  while  Adonis  —  oh  but  once, 

That  I  may  kiss  thee  now  for  the  last 
time  — 

But  for  as  long  as  one  short  kiss  may 
live  — 

Oh  let  thy  breath  flow  from  thy  dying  soul 

Even  to  my  mouth  and  heart,  that  I  may 
suck 

That   .   .   . 

FRAGMENT  OF  THE  ELEGY  ON 
THE   DEATH    OF   BION. 

FROM    THE    GREEK   OF    MOSCHUS. 

Ye  Dorian  woods  and  waves  lament 
aloud,  — 

Augment  your  tide,  O  streams,  with  fruit- 
less tears, 

For  the  beloved  Bion  is  no  more. 

Let  every  tender  herb  and  plant  and 
flower, 

From  each  dejected  bud  and  drooping 
bloom, 

Shed  dews  of  liquid  sorrow,  and  with 
breath 

Of  melancholy  sweetness  on  the  wind 

Diffuse  its  languid  love;  let  roses  blush, 

Anemones  grow  paler  for  the  loss 

Their  dells  have  known;  and  thou,  O 
hyacinth, 

Utter  thy  legend  now  —  yet  more,  dumb 
flower, 

Than  "Ah!  alas!  " — thine  is  no  com- 
mon grief  — 

Bion  the  [sweetest  singer]  is  no  more. 

FROM  THE   GREEK   OF 
MOSCHUS. 

Tav  aAa  rav  yXavnav  orav  dife/ao?  arpe'/aa 
/3aAArj —  k.  t.  A. 

When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  sur 
face  sweep 


PAN,  ECHO,  AND   THE  SA  TYR. 


629 


The  azure  sea,  I  love  the  land  no  more; 
The  smiles  of    the   serene   and  tranquil 

deep 
Tempi    my   unquiet    mind.  —  But    when 

the  roar 
Of    Ocean's    gray    abyss    resounds,    and 

foam 
Gathers   upon   the   sea,   and  vast  waves 

burst, 
I  turn  from  the  drear  aspect  to  the  home 
Of  earth  and  its  deep  woods,  where  in- 

tersperst, 
When    winds     blow     loud,    pines    make 

sweet   melody. 


FROM  VERGIL'S  TENTH 
ECLOGUE. 

[Vv.   1-26.] 

Melodious  Arethusa,  o'er  my  verse 
Shed  thou  once  more  the  spirit  of  thy 
stream : 
Who  denies  verse  to  Gallus?     So,  when 
thou 
Glidest  beneath  the  green  and  purple 
gleam 
Of  Syracusan  waters,  mayst  thou  flow 
Unmingled  with  the  bitter  Doric  dew 


Whose  house  is  some  lone  bark,  whose   j   Beginj  and)  whi]st  the         ts  are  brows. 

ing  now 
The    soft    leaves,    in    our    way   let    us 
pursue 
The  melancholy  loves  of  Gallus.        List ! 
We    sing   not    to   the   dead :   the   wild 
woods  knew 
His  sufferings,  and  their  echoes  .   .   . 
Young    Naiads,    ...    in   what    far 
woodlands  wild 
Wandered  ye  when  unworthy  love  possest 
Your    Gallus?     Not  where    Pindus  is 
up-piled, 
Nor  where  Parnassus'  sacred  mount,  nor 
where 
Aonian  Aganippe  expands  .    .   . 
The  laurels  and  the  myrtle-copses  dim. 

The  pine-encircled  mountain,  Msenalus, 

The  cold  crags  of  Lycgeus,  weep  for  him; 

And     Sylvan,     crowned    with     rustic 

coronals, 


Whose   prey  the  wandering  fish,  an  evil   I 

lot 
Has   chosen.  —  But  I  my  languid  limbs 

will  fling 
Beneath   the    plane,   where   the   brook's 

murmuring 
Moves    the    calm    spirit,  but   disturbs   it 

not. 

PAN,    ECHO,  AND   THE  SATYR. 

FROM    THE   GREEK    OF    MOSCHUS. 

Pan  loved  his  neighbor  Echo  —  but  that 

child 
Of  Earth  and  Air  pined  for  the  Satyr 

leaping; 
The   Satyr   loved  with   wasting   madness 

wild 


The    bright    nymph    Lyda,—  and    so      Came  shaking  in  his  speed  the  budding 


three   went   weeping 
As    Pan    loved    Echo,    Echo    loved    the 

Satyr, 
The   Satyra   Lyda  —  and  so  love  con- 
sumed them. — 
And  thus  to  each  —  which  was  a  woful 

matter  — 
To    bear    what    they    inflicted    Justice 

doomed  them: 
For  in   as  much  as  each  might  hate  the 

lover, 
Each  loving,  so  was  hated.  —  Ye  that 

love  not 
Be  warned  —  in  thought  turn  this  example 

over, 
That  when  ye   love  —  the  like  return  ye 

prove  not. 


wands 

And   heavy  lilies  which  he  bore :   we 
knew 
Pan  the  Arcadian. 

What    madness    is    this,    Gallus?      Thy 

heart's  care 
With  willing  steps  pursues  another  there. 

SONNET. 

FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    DANTE. 

Dante    Alighieri  to    Guido    Cavalcanti. 
Guido,  I  would  that  Lapo,  thou,  and  I 
Led  by  some  strong  enchantment,  might 
ascend 


630 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


A     magic     ship,    whose    charmed     sails 

should   fly 
With  winds  at  will  where'er  our  thoughts 

might  wend, 
And  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance 
Should   mar  our  joyous  voyage;    but  it 

might  be, 
That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 
Between    our    hearts    their    strict    com- 
munity : 
And  that    the     bounteous    wizard    then 

would  place 
Yanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love, 
Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would 

grace 
With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might 

rove, 
Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and 

free 
As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 


THE     FIRST    CANZONE    OF    THE 
CONVITO. 

FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF   DANTE. 


Ye   who    intelligent    the    third    heaven 

move, 
Hear  the  discourse  which  is  within  my 
Heart, 
Which  cannot  be  declared,  it  seems  so 
new; 
The  Heaven  whose  course  follows   your 
power  and  art, 
Oh,  gentle  creatures  that  ye  arc  !  me 

drew, 
And  therefore  may  I  dare  to  speak  to 
you, 
Even  of  the  life  which  now  I  live  —  and 
yet 
I  pray  that  ye  will   hear  me  when  I 

cry, 
And    tell    of     mine    own     Heart    this 
novelty; 
How  the  lamenting  Spirit  moans  in  it, 
And  how  a  voice  there  murmurs  against 

her 
Who  came   on    the    refulgence  of    your 
sphere. 


11. 


A  sweet   Thought,  which  was   once  the 
life  within 
This  heavy  Heart,  many  a  Jime  and  oft 
Went  up  before  our  Father's  feet,  and 

there 
It  saw  a  glorious  Lady  throned  aloft; 
And  its  sweet  talk  of  her  my  soul  did 
win, 
So  that  I  said,  "Thither  I  too  will 

fare." 
That  Thought  is  fled,  and  one  doth 
now.  appear 
Which    tyrannizes    me  with    such  fierce 
stress, 
That  my  heart  trembles  —  ye  may  see 

it  leap  — 
And  on  another  Lady  bids  me  keep 
Mine  eyes,  and  says —  "  Who  would  have 

blessedness 
Let  him  but  look  upon  that  Lady's  eyes, 
Let  him  not  fear  the  agony  of  sighs." 


in. 


This  lowly  Thought,  which  once  would 

talk  with  me 
Of    a  bright  Seraph  sitting  crowned  on 
high, 
Found  such  a  cruel  foe  it  died,  and  so 
My  Spirit  wept,  the  grief  is  hot  even 
now  — 
And  said,  "  Alas  for  me  !  how  swift  could 

flee 
That   piteous  thought  which  did  my  life 
console  !  " 
And  the  afflicted  one  questioning 

Mine  eyes,  if  such  a  Lady  saw  they 
never, 
And  why  they  would   .   .   . 

I  said:    "  Beneath  those  eyes  might 
stand  for  ever 
He   whom  regards  must  kill 

with   .   .   . 
To  have  known  their  power  stood  me  in 

little  stead, 
Those  eyes  have  lookt  on  me,  and  I  am 
dead." 


Thou    art    not   dead,    but     thou    hast 
wandered, 


MATILDA    GATHERING   FLOWERS. 


631 


Thou  Soul  of  ours,  who  thyself  dost 

fret, 
A  Spirit  of  gentle  Love  beside  me  said; 
For  that    fair  Lady,  whom  thou  dost 

regret, 
Hath  so  transformed  the  life  which  thou 

hast  led, 
Thou   scornest  it,  so  worthless  art  thou 

made. 
And   see    how   meek,   how  pitiful,   how 

staid, 
Yet  courteous,  in  her  majesty  she  is. 
And  still  call  thou  her  '  Woman  '  in  thy 

thought; 
Her  whom,  if   thou   thyself  deceivest 

not, 
Thou  wilt  behold  deckt  with  such  loveli- 
ness, 
That  thou  wilt  cry  '[Love]  only  Lord,  lo 

here 
Thy  handmaiden,  do  what  thou  wilt  with 

her.'" 


My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but 
few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  en- 
tertain. 
Whence,   if    by   misadventure    chance 
should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company,  as  chance  may 
do, 
Quite  unaware   of   what   thou    dost 

contain, 
I   prithee    comfort    thy    sweet    self 
again, 
My  last  delight;    tell  them  that  they  are 

dull, 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 

MATILDA   GATHERING 
FLOWERS. 

FROM    THE    PURGATORIO   OF    DANTE, 
CANTO    XXVIII,    I— 51 . 

And  earnest  to  explore  within  —  around 
The    divine    wood,    whose    thick    green 

living  woof 
Tempered  the  young  day  to  the  sight  — 

I  wound 


Up  the  green  slope,  beneath  the  forest's 
roof, 

With  slow  soft  steps  leaving  the  moun- 
tain's steep, 

And  sought  those  inmost  labyrinths, 
motion-proof 

Against  the  air,  that  in  that  stillness  deep 
And  solemn,   struck  upon  my   forehead 

bare, 
The  slow  soft  stroke  of  a  continuous  .   .   . 

In  which  the  leaves  tremblingly 

were 
All  bent  towards  that  part  where  earliest 
The  sacred  hill  obscures  the  morning  air. 

Yet  were  they  not   so   shaken   from  the 

rest, 
But  that  the  birds,  percht  on  the  utmost 

spray, 
Incessantly  renewing  their  blithe  quest, 

With  perfect  joy  received  the  early  day, 
Singing  within  the  glancing  leaves,  whose 

sound 
Kept  a  low  burden  to  their  roundelay, 

Such   as   from    bough   to  bough    gathers 

around 
The  pine  forest  on  bleak  Chiassi's  shore, 
When  /Eolus  Sirocco  has  unbound. 

My  slow  steps  had  already  borne  me  o'er 
Such    space    within    the    antique    wood, 

that  I 
Perceived  not  where  I  entered  any  more, 

When,  lo  !  a  stream  whose  little  waves 

went  by, 
Bending  towards  the  left  thro'  grass  that 

grew 
Upon  its  bank,  impeded  suddenly 

My  going  on.      Water  of  purest  hue 
On  earth,  would  appear  turbid  and  im- 
pure 
Compared  with  this,  whose  unconcealing 
dew, 

Dark,  dark,  yet  clear,  moved  under  the 

obscure 
Eternal  shades,  whose  interwoven  looms 
The  rays  of  moon  or  sunlight  ne'er  en- 
dure. 


632 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


I  moved  not  with  my  feet,  but  mid  the 
glooms 

Pierced  with  my  charmed  eye  contem- 
plating 

The  mighty  multitude  of  fresh  May 
blooms 

Which  starred  that  night,  when,  even  as 

a  thing 
That  suddenly  for  blank  astonishment 
Charms    every    sense,     and    makes    all 

thought  take  wing, 

A  solitary  woman  !   and  she  went 
Singing  and  gathering  flower  after  flower, 
With  which   her   way   was  painted    and 
besprent. 

Bright    lady,    who,    if    looks    had    ever 

power 
To  bear  true  witness  of  the  heart  within, 
Dost   bask    under    the    beams    of    love, 

come   lower 

Towards  this  bank.    I  prithee  let  me  win 
This  much  of  thee,  to  come,  that  I  may 

hear 
Thy  song;    like   Proserpine,   in    Enna's 

glen, 

Thou  seemest  to  my  fancy,  singing  here 
And    gathering    flowers,     as    that     fair 

maiden  when 
She  lost  the  spring,  and  Ceres  her,  more 

dear. 

FRAGMENT 

ADAPTED    FROM    THE    VITA    NUOVA 
OF    DANTE. 

What  Mary  is  when  she  a  little  smiles 
I  cannot  even  tell  or  call  to  mind, 
It  is  a  miracle,  so  new,  so  rare. 


SONNET 

from  the  italian  of  cavalcanti. 

Guido  Cavalcanti  to  Dante 
Alighieri. 

Returning    from    its    daily   quest,    my 
Spirit 


Changed  thoughts  and  vile  in  thee  doth 

weep  to  find: 
It   grieves   me  that  thy  mild  and  gentle 

mind 
Those  ample  virtues  which  it  did  inherit 
Has   lost.     Once  thou   didst   loathe  the 

multitude 
Of  blind  and  madding  men  —  I  then  loved 

thee  — 
I  loved  thy  lofty  songs  and  that  sweet 

mood 
When  thou  wert  faithful  to   thyself  and 

me. 
I  dare  not  now  thro'  thy  degraded  state 
Own  the  delight  thy  strains  inspire  —  in 

vain 
I  seek  what  once  thou  wert  —  we  can  not 

meet 
As  we  were  wont.      Again  and  yet  again 
Ponder   my  words:    so    the    false  Spirit 

shall  fly 
And  leave  to  thee  thy  true  integrity. 


SCENES   FROM   THE  MAGICO 
PRODIGIOSO. 

FROM  THE    SPANISH    OF    CALDERON. 

SCENE  I.  —Enter  Cyprian,  dressed  as 
a  Student:  Clarin  and  Moscon  as 
poor  Scholars,  with  books. 

Cyprian.      In    the    sweet   solitude    of 

this  calm  place, 
This  intricate  wild  wilderness  of  trees 
And  flowers  and  undergrowth  of  odorous 

plants, 
Leave  me;    the  books  you  brought  out  of 

the  house 
To  me  are  ever  best  society. 
And  while  with  glorious  festival  and  song, 
Antioch  now  celebrates  the  consecration 
Of  a  proud  temple  to  great  Jupiter, 
And  bears  his  image  in  loud  jubilee 
To  its  new  shrine,  I  would  consume  what 

still 
Lives    of    the    dying    day,    in    studious 

thought, 
Far  from  the  throng  and  turmoil.      You, 

my  friends, 
Go,  and  enjoy  the  festival;    it  will 
Be  worth  your  pains.     You  may  return 

for  me 


SCENES  FROM   THE   MAGTCO    rRODIGIOSO. 


(m 


When  the  sun  seeks  its  grave  among   the 

billows, 
Which    among  dim  gray    clouds   on   the 

horizon, 
Dance  like  white  plumes  upon  a  hearse; 

—  and  here 
I  shall  expect  you. 

Moscon,  I  can  not  bring  my  mind, 

Great  as  my  haste  to  see  the  festival 
Certainly  is,  to  leave  you,  Sir,  without 
Just  saying  some   three   or  four  thousand 

words. 
Mow  is  it  possible  that  on  a  day 
Of  such  festivity,  you  can  be  content 
To  come  forth  to  a  solitary  country 
With  three  or  four  old  books,  and   turn 

your  back 
On  all  this  mirth? 

Chirm.  My  master's  in  the  right: 

There  is  not  anything  more  tiresome 
Than  a  procession  day,  with  troops,  and 

priests, 
And  dances,  and  all  that. 

Moscon.  From  first  to  last, 

Clarin,  you  are  a  temporising  flatterer: 
You   praise  not  what  you  feel  but  what 

he  does; — 
Toad-eater  ! 

Clarin.  You  lie  —  under  a 

mistake  — 
For  this  is  the  most  civil  sort  of  lie 
That   can  be  given  to  a  man's  face.      I 

now 
Say  what  I  think. 

Cyprian.  Enough,  you  foolish 

fellows  ! 
Pufft  up  with  your  own  doting  ignorance, 
You   always  take  the    two   sides   of  one 

question. 
Now  go:    and  as  I  said,  return  for  me 
When  night  falls,  veiling  in  its   shadows 

wide 
This  glorious  fabric  of  the  universe. 
Moscon.      How  happens  it,  altho'  you 

can  maintain 
The  folly  of  enjoying  festivals, 
That  yet  you  go  there? 

Clarin.  Nay,  the  consequence 

Is  clear:  —  who  ever  did  what  he  advises 
Others  to  do?  — 

Moscon.  Would  that  my  feet 

were  wings, 
So  would  I  fly  to  Livia.  [Exit. 


Clarin.  To  speak  truth, 

Livia     is    she     who     has     surprised    my 

heart; 
But  he  is  more  than  half-way  there.  — 

Soho  ! 
Livia,  I  come;    good  sport,  Livia,  soho  ! 

[Exit. 
Cyprian.      Now,    since    I    am    alone, 

let  me  examine 
The   question  which    has   long  disturbed 

my  mind 
With  doubt,  since  first  I  read  in  Plinius 
The  words   of   mystic   import   and   deep 

sense 
In  which  he  defines  God.      My  intellect 
Can  find  no  God  with  whom  these  marks 

and  signs 
Fitly  agret?.      It  is  a  hidden  truth 
Which  I  must  fathom. 

[Cyprian  reads;  ///t-  Rimon,  dressed 

in  a  Court  dress,  enters.} 

Dicmoti.  Search  even  as  thou 

wilt, 
But    thou    shalt    never  find   what    I   can 

hide. 
Cyprian.     What  noise  is  that  among 

the  boughs?     Who  moves? 
What  art  thou)  — 

Dccmon.  'T  is  a  foreign  gentle- 

man. 
Even  from  this  morning  I  have  lost  my 

way 
In  this  wild  place;   and  my  poor  horse  at 

last, 
Quite    overcome,    has    stretcht    himself 

upon 
The    enamelled    tapestry    of   this    mossy 

mountain, 
And   feeds    and   rests  at  the  same  time. 

I  was 
Upon  my  way  to  Antioch  upon  business 
Of    some   importance,   but    wrapt   up    in 

cares 
(Who  is  exempt  from  this  inheritance?) 
I  parted  from  my  company,  and  lost 
My   way,   and   lost   my  servants  and  my 

comrades. 
Cyprian.  'T  is  singular  that  even 

within  the  sight 
Of  the  high  towers  of  Antioch  you  could 

lose 
Your  way.     Of  all  the  avenues  and  green 

paths 


634 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


Of  this  wild  wood  there  is  not  one  but 

leads, 
As  to  its  centre,  to  the  walls  of  Antioch; 
Take    which  you  will    you   cannot  miss 

your  road. 
Damon.       And    such    is    ignorance! 

Even  in  the  sight 
Of    knowledge,    it    can   draw    no   profit 

from  it, 
But  as  it  still  is  early,  and  as  I 
Have  no  acquaintances  in  Antioch, 
Being  a  stranger  there,  I  will  even  wait 
The  few  surviving  hours  of  the  day, 
Until  the  night  shall  conquer  it.     I  see 
Both  by  your  dress  and  by  the  books  in 

which 
You  find  delight  and  company,  that  you 
Are   a   great  student;  — for  my  part,   I 

feel 
Much  sympathy  in  such  pursuits. 

Cyprian.  Have  you 

Studied  much? 

Dcrmon.  No,  —  and  yet  I 

know  enough 
Not  to  be  wholly  ignorant. 

Cyprian.  Pray,  Sir, 

What  science  may  you  know  ?  — 
Damon .  Many. 

Cyprian.  Alas! 

Much    pains    must    we    expend   on    one 

alone, 
And  even  then  attain  it  not;  — but  you 
Have  the  presumption  to  assert   that  you 
Know  many  without  study. 

Damon.  And  with  truth. 

For  in   the    country  whence   I  come  the 

sciences 
Require  no  learning,  — they  are  known. 
Cyprian.  Oh  would 

I  were  of  that  bright  country  !   for  in  this 
The   more  we   study,   we   the   more  dis- 
cover 
Our  ignorance. 

Damon.  It  is  so  true,  that  I 

Had  so  much  arrogance  as  to  oppose 
The   chair   of   the    most    high    Professor- 
ship, 
And   obtained    many  votes,    and    tho'    I 

lost, 
The    attempt    was    still 

than   the   failure 
Could  be  dishonorable. 

not, 


more    glorious, 


If  you  believe 


Let  us  refer  it  to  dispute  respecting 
That    which    you    know    the     best,    and 

altho'  I 
Know  not  the  opinion  you  maintain,  and 

tho' 
It  be  the  true  one,  1  will  take  the  con- 
trary. 
Cyprian.     The    offer  gives  me    plea- 
sure.     I  am  now 
Debating  with  myself  upon  a  passage 
Of   Plinius,   and  my  mind  is  rackt  with 

doubt 
To    understand    and    know    who    is    the 

God 
Of  whom  he  speaks. 

Damon.  It  is  a  passage,  if 

I    recollect    it    right,    coucht    in    these 

words : 
"God    is    one    supreme    goodness,    one 

pure  essence, 
One  substance,  and  one  sense,  all  sight, 
all  hands. 
Cyprian.      'T  is  true. 
Damon.  What  difficulty  find 

you  here? 
Cyprian.      I   do  not  recognize  among 
the  Gods 
The  God  defined  by  Plinius;   if  he  must 
Be  supreme  goodness,  even  Jupiter 
Is  not  supremely  good;   because  we  see 
His  deeds  are  evil,  and  his  attributes 
Tainted  with  mortal  weakness;   in  what 

manner 
Can    supreme    goodness    be    consistent 

with 
The  passions  of  humanity? 

Damon.  The  wisdom 

Of  the  old  world  maskt  with  the  names 

of  Gods 
The  attributes  of  Nature  and  of  Man; 
A  sort  of  popular  philosophy. 

Cyprian.     This  reply  will   not   satisfy 
me,  for 
Such  awe  is  due  to    the    high    name    of 

God 
That  ill  should  never  be  imputed.     Then 
Examining  the  question  with  more   care, 
It  follows,  that  the  Gods  would   always 

will 
That  which  is  best,  were  they  supremely 

good. 
How  then  does  one  will  one  thing,  one 
another? 


SCENES  FROM    THE   MAG  ICO    PRODIGIOSO. 


635 


And  that  you  may  not  say  that  I  allege 
Poetical  or  philosophic  learning:  — 
Consider  the  ambiguous  responses 
Of     their    oracular     statues;      from     two 

shrines 
Two  armies  shall  obtain  the  assurance  of 
One  victory.      Is  it  not  indisputable 
That    two    contending    wills    can     never 

lead 
To  the  same  end?     And  being  opposite, 
if  one  he  good  is  not  the  other  evil? 
Evil  in  God  is  inconceivable; 
But    supreme   goodness  fails  among   the 

Gods 
Without  their  union. 

Du/nou.  I  deny  your  major. 

These  responses  are  means  towards  some 

end 
Unfathomed  by  our  intellectual  beam. 
They   are   the   work   of   providence,  and 

more 
The   battle's  loss  may  profit   those  who 

lose, 
Than  victory  advantage  those  who  win. 
Cyprian.     That  I  admit;    and  yet  that 

God  should  not 
(Falsehood  is  incompatible  with  deity) 
Assure  the  victory;    it  would  be  enough 
To  have  permitted  the  defeat.      If  God 
Be  all  sight,  —  God,  who  had  beheld  the 

truth, 
Would  .not  have  given   assurance  of    an 

end 
Never  to  be  accomplisht :    thus,  altho' 
The  Deity  may  according  to  his  attributes 
Be  well  distinguish^  into  persons,  yet 
Even  in  the  minutest  circumstance 
His  essence  must  be  one. 

Dccmon.  To  attain  the  end 

The  affections  of  the  actors  in  the  scene 
Must  have   been  thus   influenced   by  his 

voice. 
Cyprian.     But     for    a    purpose     thus 

subordinate 
He  might  have  emploved  Genii,  good  or 

evil,  — 
A  sort  of  spirits  called  so  by  the  learned, 
Who  roam  about  inspiring  good  or  evil, 
And  from  whose  influence  and   existence 

we 
May  well  infer  our  immortality. 
Thus  God  might  easily,  without  descent 
To  a  gn>Ns  falsehood  in  his  proper  person, 


!    Have  moved  the  affections  by  this  media- 
tion 
To  the  just  point. 
Dicmon.  These  trifling  con- 

tradictions 
Do  not  suffice  to  impugn  the  unity 
Of   the    high    Gods;     in    things   of  great 
importance 
j   They  still  appear  unanimous;    consider 
j   That    glorious    fabric   man,- — -his   work" 

manship 
i   Is  stampt  with  one  conception. 

Cyprian.  Who  made  man 

j    Must   have,   methinks,   the   advantage  of 
the  others. 
If   they  are   equal,  might  they  not  have 

risen 
In  opposition  to  the  work,  and  being 
i    All  hands,  according  to  our  author  here, 
j    Have  still    destroyed   even    as    the    other 

made? 
j    If  equal  in  their  power,  unequal  only 

In  opportunity,  which  of   the  two 
\   Will  remain  conqueror? 

Dccmon.  On  impossible 

And  false  hypothesis  there  can  be  built 
No  argument.      Say,  what  do  you  infer 
j    From  this? 

Cyprian.  That  there  must  be  a 

mighty  God 
Of     supreme    goodness    and    of     highest 
grace, 
I    All  sight,  all  hands,  all  truth,  infallible, 
Without  an  equal  and  without  a  rival, 
The  cause  of   all  things  and  the  effect   of 
nothing, 
I    One  power,  one  will,  one  substance,  and 
one  essence. 
And  in  whatever  persons,  one  or  two, 
j    His  attributes  may  be  distinguisht,  one 
Sovereign  power,  one  solitary  essence, 
j   One  cause  of  all  cause.  [They rise. 

Dicmon.  How  can  I  impugn 

So  clear  a  consequence? 

Cyprian.  Do  you  regret 

(   My  victory? 

Dtemon.  Who  but  regrets  a  check 

\   In  rivalry  of  wit?   I  could  reply 

And  urge  new  difficulties,  but  will  now 
:   Depart,    for    I    hear    steps    of    men    ap- 
proaching, 
And  it  is  time  that  I  should  now  pursue 
;    My  journey  to  the  city. 


636 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


Cyprian.  Go  in  peace  ! 

Damon.      Remain  in  peace  !  —  Since 
thus  it  profits  him 
To  study,  I  will  wrap  his  senses  up 
In  sweet  oblivion  of  all  thought,  but  of 
A  piece  of  excellent  beauty;  and  as  I 
Have  power  given  me  to  wage  enmity 
Against  Justina's  soul,  I  will  extract 
From  one  effect  two  vengeances. 

[Aside  and  exit. 
Cyprian.  I  never 

Met  a  more  learned  person.     Let  me  now 
Revolve   this    doubt    again   with    careful 
mind.  \_He  reads. 

FLORO  and  Lelio  enter. 
Lelio.     Here    stop.       These    toppling 
rocks  and  tangled  boughs, 
Impenetrable  by  the  noonday  beam, 
Shall  be  sole  witnesses  of  what  we  — 

Flora.  Draw ! 

If  there  were  words,  here  is  the  place  for 

deeds. 

Lelio.     Thou  needest  not  instruct  me; 

well  I  know 

1'hat   in  the   field,  the  silent  tongue   of 

steel 
Speaks  thus,  —  [  They  fight. 

Cyprian.  Ha!  what  is  this? 

Lelio,  —  Floro, 
Be  it  enough  that  Cyprian  stands  between 

you, 
Altho'  unarmed. 

Lelio.  Whence  comest  thou,  to 

stand 
Between  me  and  my  vengeance  ! 

Floro.  From  what  locks 

And  desert  cells? 

Enter  Moscon  and  Clarin. 
Moscon.  Run  !  run  !   for 

where  we  left 
My    master,    I   now    hear    the    clash    of 
swords. 
Clarin.      I    never     run     to     approach 
things  of  this  sort, 
But  only  to  avoid  them.      Sir  !  Cyprian  ! 
sir! 
Cyprian.     Be  silent,  fellows  !     What! 
two  friends  who  are 
In  blood  and  fame  the  eyes  and  hope  of 

Antioch, 
One  of  the  noble  race  of  the  Colalti, 
The   other  son  o'  the  Governor,   adven- 
ture 


And  cast  away,  on  some  slight  cause  no 

doubt, 
Two  lives,  the  honor  of  their  country? 

delio.  Cyprian  \ 

Altho'    my    high    respect    towards    your 

person 
Holds  now   my  sword  suspended,    thou 

canst  not 
Restore  it  to  the  slumber  of  the  scabbard: 
Thou  knowest  more  of  science  than  the 

duel; 
For  when  two  men  of  honor  take  the  field, 
No  counsel  nor   respect  can  make   them 

friends 
But  one  must  die  in  the  dispute. 

Floro.  I  pray 

That  you  depart  hence  with  your  people, 

and 
Leave  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun 
Without  advantage.  — 

Cyprian.  Tho'  you  may 

imagine 
That  I  know  little  of  the  laws  of  duel, 
Which  vanity  and  valor  instituted, 
You  are  in  error.     By  my  birth  I  am 
Held  no  less    than   yourselves    to    know 

the  limits 
Of  honor  and  of  infamy,  nor  has  study 
Quencht  the  free  spirit  which  first  ordered 

them ; 
And  thus  to  me,  as  one  well  experienced 
In   the    false    quicksands    of  the    sea  of 

honor, 
You  may  refer  the  merits  of  the  case; 
And  if   I  should  perceive  in  your   rela- 
tion 
That  either  has  the  right  to  satisfaction 
From  the  other,  I  give  you  my  word  of 

honor 
To  leave  you. 

Lelio.  Under  this  condition  then 

I  will  relate  the  cause,  and  you  will  cede 
And  must  confess  the  impossibility 
Of  compromise;    for  the  same  lady  is 
Beloved  by  Floro  and  myself. 

Floro.  It  seems 

Much  to  me  that  the  light  of  day  should 

look 
Upon  that  idol  of  my  heart  —  but  he  — 
Leave  us  to  fight,  according  to  thy  word. 
Cyprian.    Permit  one  question  further: 

is  the  lady 
Impossible  to  hope  or  not? 


SCENES  FROM    THE   MAG /CO   PRODIGIOSO. 


637 


Lelio.  She  is 

So  excellent,  that  if  the  light  of  day 
Should  excite  Floro's  jealousy,  it  were 
Without  just  cause,  for  even  the  light  of 

day 
Trembles  to  gaze  on  her. 

Cyprian.  Would  you  for  your 

Part,  marry  her? 

Flora.  Such  is  my  confidence. 

Cyprian.     And  you? 

Lelio.  Oh  !  would  that  I 

could  lift  my  hope 
So  high,  for  tho'  she  is  extremely  poor, 
Her  virtue  is  her  dowry. 

Cyprian.  And  if  you  both 

Would   marry   her,  is   it    not    weak    and 

vain, 
Culpable  and  unworthy,  thus  beforehand  I 
To   slur  her  honor?      What    would   the 

world  say 
If  one  should  slay  the  other,  and  if  she 
Should  afterwards  espouse  the  murderer? 
[  The  rivals  agree  to  refer  their  quarrel  \ 

to  Cyprian;  wJio  in  consequence  visits 

Justina,   arid  becomes    enamoured  of 

her  :  she  disdains  him,  and  he  retires 

to  a  solitary  sea-shore. 


SCENE    II. 

Cyprian. 

O  memory  !  permit  it  not 

That  the  tyrant  of  my  thought 

Be  another  soul  that  still 

Holds  dominion  o'er  the  will, 

That  would  refuse,  but  can  no  more, 

To  bend,  to  tremble,  and  adore. 

Vain  idolatry!  —  I  saw, 

And  gazing,  became  blind  with  error; 
Weak  ambition,  which  the  awe 

Of  her  presence  bound  to  terror  ! 
So  beautiful  she  was  —  and  I, 
Between  my  love  and  jealousy, 
Am  so  convulst  with  hope  and  fear, 
Unworthy  as  it  may  appear;  — 
So  bitter  is  the  life  I  live, 
That,  hear  me,  Hell  !    I  now  would  give 
To  thy  most  detested  spirit 
My  soul,  for  ever  to  inherit, 
To  suffer  punishment  and  pine, 
So  this  woman  may  be  mine. 


Hear'st  thou,  Hell!  dost  thou  reject  it? 
My  soul  is  offered  ! 

Du-mon  (unseen).  I  accept  it. 

[  Tempest,  with  thunder  and  lightning. 

Cyprian. 
What  is  this?  ye  heavens  for  ever  pure, 
At  once  intensely  radiant  and  obscure  ! 

Athwart  the  ethereal  halls 
The  lightning's  arrow  and  the  thunder- 
balls 
The  day  affright. 
As  from  the  horizon  round, 
Burst  with  earthquake  sound, 
In    mighty    torrents    the    electric    foun- 
tains;— 
Clouds  quench  the  sun,  and  thunder- 
smoke 
Strangles     the     air,     and     fire    eclipses 
heaven. 
Philosophy,  thou  canst  not  even 
Compel  their  causes  underneath  thy  yoke ; 
From  yonder  clouds   even   to  the   waves 

below 
The  fragments  of  a  single  ruin  choke 
Imagination's  flight; 
For,  on  flakes  of  surge,  like  feathers 
light, 
The  ashes  of  the  desolation  cast 
Upon  the  gloomy  blast, 
Tell  of  the  footsteps  of  the  storm. 
And  nearer  see  the  melancholy  form 
Of  a  great  ship,  the  outcast  of  the  sea, 

Drives  miserably  ! 
And  it  must  fly  the  pity  of  the  port, 
Or  perish,  and  its  last  and  sole  resort 
Is  its  own  raging  enemy. 
The  terror  of   the  thrilling  cry 
Was  a  fatal  prophecy 
Of  coming  death,  who  hovers  now 
Upon  that  shattered  prow, 
That   they  who    die    not    may    be    dying 

still. 
And  not  alone  the  insane  elements 
Are  populous  with  wild  portents, 
But  that  sad  ship  is  as  a  miracle 

Of  sudden  ruin,  for  it  drives  so  fast 
It  seems  as  if  it  had  arrayed  its  form 
With  the  headlong  storm. 
It  strikes  —  I  almost  feel  the  shock,  — 
It  stumbles  on  a  jagged  rock,  — 
Sparkles  of  blood  on  the  white  foam 
are  cast.  [A  tempest. 


638 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


All  exclaim  zvithin.      We  are  all  lost. 
Dce?non  {within).  Now  from  this 

plank  will  I 
Pass    to    the   land    and    thus     fulfil     my 
scheme. 

Cyprian. 
As  in  contempt  of  the  elemental  rage 
A  man   comes  forth    in    safety,    while 

the  ship's 
Great  form  is  in  a  watery  eclipse 
Obliterated  from  the  Ocean's  page, 
And    round     its     wreck    the     huge  sea- 
monsters  sit, 
A  horrid    conclave,    and    the    whistling 

wave 
Is  heapt  over  its  carcase,  like  a  grave. 
The  D/EMON  enters  as  escaped  from 

the  sea. 
Damon   {aside).     It   was   essential  to 
my  purposes 
To  wake  a  tumult  on  the  sapphire  ocean, 
That  in  this  unknown  form   I   might   at 

length 
Wipe  out  the  blot  of  the  discomfiture 
Sustained  upon  the  mountain,  and  assail 
With  a  new  war  the  soul  of  Cyprian, 
Forging  the  instruments  of  his  destruc- 
tion 
Even  from  his  love  and  from  his  wisdom. 

—  Oh! 
Beloved     earth,     dear     mother,   in     thy 

bosom 
I  seek  a  refuge  from  the  monster  who 
Precipitates  itself  upon  me. 

Cyprian.  Friend, 

Collect  thyself;    and  be  the  memory 
Of  thy   late   suffering,   and    thy    greatest 

sorrow 
But  as  a  shadow  of  the  past,  —  for  nothing 
Beneath    the    circle   of     the     moon,    but 

flows 
And  changes,   and  can  never  know  re- 
pose. 
Damon.     And  who    art  thou,   before 
whose  feet  my  fate 
Has  prostrated  me? 

Cyprian.  One  who,  moved 

with  pity, 
Would  soothe  its  stings. 

Damon.  Oh,  that  can  never  be  ! 

No  solace  can  my  lasting  sorrows  find. 
Cyprian.      Wherefore? 


Damon.  Because  my  happi- 

ness is  lost. 
Yet  I  lament  what  has  long  ceast  to  be 
The  object  of  desire  or  memory, 
And  my  life  is  not  life. 

Cyprian.  Now,  since  the  fury 

Of  this  earthquaking  hurricane  is  still, 
And   the    crystalline    heaven    has    reas- 

sumed 
Its    windless    calm    so    quickly,    that    it 

seems 
As  if    its  heavy  wrath  had  been   awak- 
ened 
Only  to  overwhelm  that  vessel,  —  speak, 
Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou? 
Damon.  Far  more 

My  coming  hither  cost,  than  thou  hast 

seen 
Or  I  can  tell.     Among  my  misadventures 
This  shipwreck  is   the  least.     Wilt  thou 

hear? 
Cyprian.  Speak. 

Dainon.     Since   thou  desirest,   I  will 

then  unveil 
Myself  to  thee;  — for  in  myself  I  am 
A  world  of  happiness  and  misery; 
This  I  have  lost,  and  that  I  must   lament 
Forever.     In  my  attributes  I  stood 
So  high  and  so  heroically  great, 
In  lineage  so  supreme,  and  with  a  genius 
Which  penetrated  with  a  glance  the  world 
Beneath  my  feet,  that  won  by   my  high 

merit 
A  king  —  whom  I  may  call  the  king  of 

kings, 
Because  all  others  tremble  in  their  pride 
Before  the  terrors  of  his  countenance, 
In  his  high   palace  rooft  with   brightest 

gems 
Of  living  light  —  call  them   the   stars  of 

Heaven  — 
Named  me  his  counsellor.     But  the  high 

praise 
Stung   me   with   pride   and   envy,  and    I 

rose 
In  mighty  competition,  to  ascend 
His  seat  and  place  my  foot  triumphantly 
Upon  his   subject  thrones.      Chastised,  I 

know 
The  depth  to  which  ambition   falls;    too 

mad 
Was    the    attempt,   and    yet    more    mad 

were  now 


SCENES  FROM   THE   MAG  ICO   FRODIGIOSO. 


639 


Repentance  of  the   irrevocable  deed:  — 
Therefore    I    chose    this   ruin    with    the 

glory 
Of  not  to  be  subdued,  before  the  shame 
Of  reconciling  me  with  him  who  reigns 
By  coward  cession.  —  Nor  was  I  alone, 
Nor  am  I  now,  nor  shall  I  be  alone; 
And  there  was  hope,  and  there  may  still 

be  hope, 
For  many  suffrages  among  his  vassals 
Hailed    me   their    lord    and    king,    and 

many   still 
Are  mine,    and  many   more,    perchance 

shall  be. 
Thus    vanquisht,    tho'    in    fact    victori- 
ous, 
I  left  his  seat  of  empire,  from  mine  eye 
Shooting  forth  poisonous  lightning,  while 

my  words 
With     inauspicious     thunderings     shook 

Heaven, 
Proclaiming    vengeance,    public    as    my 

wrong, 
And  imprecating  on  his  prostrate  slaves 
Rapine,  and  death,  and  outrage.     Then 

I  sailed 
Over  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  world, 
A  pirate  ambusht  in  its  pathless  sands, 
A    lynx     croucht    watchfully    among    its 

caves 
And  craggy  shores;  and  I  have  wandered 

over 
The  expanse  of  these  wild  wildernesses 
In  this   great  ship,  whose  bulk   is   now 

dissolved 
In  the  light  breathings  of  the  invisible 

wind, 
And  which  the  sea  has  made  a  dustless 

ruin, 
Seeking   ever    a   mountain,   thro'   whose 

forests 
I  seek  a  man  whom  I  must  now  compel 
To    keep    his  word    with    me.      I    came 

arrayed 
In    tempest,  and   altho'  my  power  could 

well 
Bridle  the  forest  winds  in  their  career, 
For  other  causes  I  forbore  to  soothe 
Their  fury  to  Favonian  gentleness; 
I  could  and  would  not;   (thus   I  wake  in 

him  [Aside. 

A    love    of    magic    art).      Let    not    this 

tempest, 


Nor    the     succeeding    calm     excite     thy 

wonder; 
For  by   my   art   the   sun   would   turn   as 

pale 
As  his  weak  sister  with  unwonted  fear. 
And    in    my    wisdom    are     the     orbs    of 

Heaven 
Written  as  in  a  record;    I  have  pierced 
The    flaming    circles    of    their  wondrous 

spheres 
And  know  them  as  thou  knowest  every 

corner 
Of  this  dim  spot.     Let   it   not   seem   to 

thee 
That  I  boast  vainly;  wouldst  thou  that  I 

work 
A    charm    over    this    waste    and    savage 

wood, 
This  Babylon  of  crags  and  aged  trees, 
Filling  its  leafy  coverts  with  a  horror 
Thrilling  and  strange?     I  am  the  friend- 
less guest 
Of  these  wild  oaks   and  pines  —  and  as 

from  thee 
I  have  received  the  hospitality 
Of  this  rude  place,  I  offer  thee  the  fruit 
Of  years  of  toil  in  recompense;  whate'er 
Thy    wildest    dream     presented     to    thy 

thought 
As  object  of  desire,  that  shall  be  thine. 


And  thenceforth  shall  so  firm  an  amity 
'Twixt    thee    and    me    be,    that    neither 

fortune, 
The   monstrous   phantom  which   pursues 

success, 
That  careful  miser,  that  free  prodigal, 
Who     ever     alternates     with     changeful 

hand, 
Evil  and  good,  reproach  and  fame;   nor 

Time, 
That    lodestar    of     the     ages,    to    whose 

beam 
The  winged  years  speed  o'er  the  intervals 
Of  their  unequal  revolutions;    nor 
Heaven    itself,    whose    beautiful     bright 

stars 
Rule    and    adorn    the    world,    can    ever 

make 
The  least  division  between  thee  and  me, 
Since  now  I  find  a  refuge  in  thy  favor. 


640 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


SCENE    III.  —  The  D^MON  tempts 
Justina,  who  is  a  Christian. 

Damon. 

Abyss  of  Hell !   I  call  on  thee, 
Thou  wild  misrule  of  thine  own  anarchy  ! 
From  thy  prison-house  set  free 
The  spirits  of  voluptuous  death, 
That  with  their  mighty  breath 
They    may    destroy    a    world    of    virgin 

thoughts; 
Let  her  chaste  mind  with   fancies  thick 
as  motes 
Be  peopled  from  thy  shadowy  deep, 
Till  her  guiltless  fantasy 
Full  to  overflowing  be  ! 
And  with  sweetest  harmony 
Let  birds,  and  flowers,   and  leaves  and 
all  things  move 
To  love,  only  to  love. 
Let  nothing  meet  her  eyes 
But  signs  of  Love's  soft  victories; 

Let  nothing  meet  her  ear 
But  sounds  of  Love's  sweet  sorrow, 
So   that    from    faith    no  succor  she    may 
borrow, 
But,  guided  by  my  spirit  blind 
And  in  a  magic  snare  entwined, 

She  may  now  seek  Cyprian. 
Begin,  while  I  in  silence  bind 
My  voice,  when    thy    sweet    song    thou 
hast  began. 

A  Voice  (within*). 
What  is  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  human  life  ! 


All. 


Love !   love  ! 


[  While  these  words  are  sung  the  D/EMON 
goes  out  at  one  door,  and  JUSTINA 
enters  at  another. 

The  First  Voice. 
There  is  no  form  in  which  the  fire 

Of  love  its  traces  has  imprest  not. 
Man  lives  far  more  in  love's  desire 

Than    by    life's   breath,    soon    posscst 
not. 
If  all  that  lives  must  love  or  die, 
All  shapes  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
With  one  consent  to  Heaven  cry 


That  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  life  is  — 

All. 

Love  !  oh  lovei 

yustina. 

Thou  melancholy  thought  which  art 
So  flattering  and  so  sweet,  to  thee 
When  did  I  give  the  liberty 

Thus  to  afflict  my  heart? 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  new  power 

Which  doth  my  fevered  being  move, 
Momently  raging  more  and  more? 
What  subtle  pain  is  kindled  now 
Which  from  my  heart  doth  overflow 

Into  my  senses?  — 

All. 

Love  !  oh  love  ! 

yustina. 
'T  is  that  enamoured  nightingale 

Who  gives  me  the  reply; 
He  ever  tells  the  same  soft  tale 

Of  passion  and  of  constancy 
To  his  mate  who  rapt  and  fond 
Listening  sits  a  bough  beyond. 

Be  silent,  Nightingale  —  no  more 
Make  me  think,  in  hearing  thee 

Thus  tenderly  thy  love  deplore, 
If  a  bird  can  feel  his  so, 
What  a  man  would  feel  for  me. 
And,  voluptuous  Vine,  O  thou 

Who  seekest  most  when  least  pursuing,  — 
To  the  trunk  thou  interlacest 
Art  the  verdure  which  embracest, 

And  the  weight  which  is  its  ruin,  — 

No  more  with  green  embraces,  Vine, 
Make  me  think  on  what  thou  lovest,  — 

For  whilst  thus  thy  boughs  entwine, 
1    fear  lest  thou  should'st  teach  me, 
sophist, 

How  arms  might  be  entangled  too. 

Light-enchanted  Sunflower,  thou 
Who  gazest  ever  true  and  tender 
On  the  sun's  revolving  splendor  ! 
Follow  not  his  faithless  glance 
With  thy  faded  countenance, 
Nor  teach  my  beating  heart  to  fear, 
If   leaves  can  mourn  without  a  tear, 
How  must   eyes  weep  !     O  Nightingale, 
Cease  from  thy  enamoured  tale,  — 


SCENES  FROM    THE   MAG  ICO   TRODIGIOSO. 


641 


Leafy  Vine,  unwreathe  thy  bower, 

Restless  Sunflower,  cease  to  move,  — 
Or  tell  me  all,  what  poisonous  power 
Ye  use  against  me  — 
All. 

Love  !   love  !   love  ! 
Justina.       It     cannot     be  !  —  Whom 
have  I  ever  loved  ? 
Trophies  of  my  oblivion  and  disdain, 
Floro  and  Lelio  did  I  not  reject? 
And  Cyprian  ? 

[She  becomes  troubled  at  the  name  of 
Cyprian. 

Did  I  not  requite  him 
With  such  severity,  that  he  has  fled 
Where    none    has     ever    heard     of     him 

again?  — 
Alas  !   I  now  begin  to  fear  that  this 
May  be  the  occasion  whence  desire  grows 

bold, 
As  if  there  were  no  danger.     From  the 

moment 
That  I  pronounced  to  my  own  listening 

heart, 
Cyprian  is  absent,  O  me  miserable  ! 
I  know  not  what  I  feel !     [A/ore  calmly. 

It  must  be  pity 
To  think  that  such  a  man,  whom  all  the 

world 
Admired,   should  be    forgot    by  all   the 

world, 
And  I  the  cause. 

[She  again  beconies  troubled. 

And  yet  if  it  were  pity, 

Florio  and  Lelio  might  have  equal  share, 

For   they    are    both    imprisoned    for   my 

sake. 
{Calmly.)    Alas!     what    reasonings    are 

these?  it  is 
Enough  I  pity  him,  and  that,  in  vain, 
Without  this  ceremonious  subtlety. 
And  woe  is   me  !      I   know  not  where   to 

find  him  now, 
Even  should  I  seek  him  thro'  this  wide 

world. 

Enter  D/emon. 
Dcemon.     Follow,  and  I  will  lead  thee 

where  he  is. 
Justina.      And  who  art  thou,  who  hast 

found  entrance  hither, 
Into   my    chamber    thro'    the   doors   and 

locks? 


Art  thou  a  monstrous  shadow  which   my 

madness 
Has  formed  in  the  idle  air? 

Damon.  No.     I  am  one 

Called   by  the    thought  which    tyrannizes 

thee 
From    his    eternal    dwelling;     who    this 

day 
Is  pledged  to  bear  thee  unto  Cyprian.. 
Justina.      So   shall    thy    promise    fail. 
This  agony 
Of   passion   which    afflicts   my  heart   and 

soul 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm; 
The  will  is  firm. 

Dcemon.  Already  half  is  done 

In  the  imagination  of  an  act. 
The     sin     incurred,    the     pleasure     then 

remains; 
Let   not   the   will    stop    half-way  on   the 
road. 
Justina.     I  will   not  be  discouraged, 
nor  despair, 
Altho'  I  thought  it,  and  altho'  't  is  true 
That    thought    is    but    a   prelude   to  the 

deed: — 
Thought  is  not  in    my  power,  but   action 

is: 
I  will  not  move  my  foot  to  follow  thee. 
Diem  on.     But   a    far  mightier  wisdom 
than  thine  own 
Exerts    itself    within     thee,    with    such 

power 
Compelling    thee    to    that    which    it    in- 
clines 
That    it    shall    force   thy  step;    how   wilt 

thou  then 
Resist,  Justina? 

Justina.  By  my  free-will. 

Dcemon.  I 

Must  force  thy  will. 

Justina.  It  is  invincible; 

It   were    not    free   if    thou    hadst    power 

upon  it. 

[lie  draws  but  cannot  move  her. 

Dcemon.       Come,    where    a     pleasure 

waits  thee. 
Justina.  It  were  bought 

Too  dear. 

Dcemon.  'T  will  soothe  thy  heart 

to  softest  peace. 
'Justina.      'T  is  dread  captivity. 
Dcemon.  'T  is  joy,  't  is  glory 


642 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Justina.     'T  is  shame,  't  is  torment, 

't  is  despair. 
Deem  on.  But  how 

Canst  thou  defend  thyself  from  that  or 

me, 
If  my  power  drags  thee  onward? 

Jastina.  My  defence 

Consists  in  God. 

[  He  vainly  endeavors  to  force  her, 
and  at  last  releases  her. 

Dcemon.  Woman,  thou  hast 

subdued  me, 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued. 
But  since  thou   thus   findest  defence   in 

God, 
I  will  assume  a  feigned  form,  and  thus 
Make  thee  a  victim  of  my  baffled  rage. 
For  I  will  mask  a  spirit  in  thy  form 
Who  will  betray  thy  name  to  infamy, 
And  doubly  shall  I  triumph  in  thy  loss, 
First   by  dishonoring  thee,  and  then   by 

turning 
False  pleasure  to  true  ignominy. 

[  Exit. 
Justina.  I 

Appeal  to  Heaven  against  thee;   so  that 

Heaven 
May  scatter  thy  delusions,  and  the  blot 
Upon  my  fame  vanish  in  idle  thought, 
Even  as  flame  dies  in  the  envious  air, 
And  as  the  floweret  wanes   at  morning 

frost, 
And  thou  shouldst  never  —  But,  alas!   to 

whom 
Do  I  still   speak?  —  Did   not  a  man  but 

now 
Stand  here  before  me?  — No,  I  am  alone, 
And    yet    I    saw    him.     Is   he    gone    so 

quickly? 
Or  can  the  heated  mind  engender  shapes 
From  its  own  fear?     Some   terrible  and 

strange 
Peril  is  near.     Lisander  !   father  !  lord  ! 
Livia !  — 

Enter  Lisander  and  Livia. 
Lisander.  Oh  my  daughter  ! 

What? 
Livia.  What? 

Justina.  Saw  you 

A    man    go    forth     from    my    apartment 

now?  — 
[  scarce  contain  myself: 


Lisander.  A  man  here  ! 

Justina.     Have  you  not  seen  him? 
Livia.  No,  Lady. 

Justina.     I  saw  him. 
Lisander.  'Tis  impossible;    the 

doors 
Which    led    to  this    apartment   were  all 
lockt. 
Livia  (aside).      I  dare  say  it  was  Mos- 
con  whom  she  saw, 
For  he  was  lockt  up  in  my  room. 

Lisander.  It  must 

Have  been  some  image  of  thy  fantasy. 
Such  melancholy  as  thou  feedest  is 
Skilful  in  forming  such  in  the  vain  air 
Out   of    the    motes    and    atoms    of    the 
day. 
Livia.     My  master  's  in  the  right. 
Justina.  Oh  would  it  were 

Delusion;    but  I  fear  some  greater  ill. 
I  feel  as  if  out  of  my  bleeding  bosom 
My  heart  was  torn  in  fragments;    ay, 
Some  mortal  spell  is  wrought  against  my 

frame; 
So   potent  was  the  charm,  that  had  not 

God 
Shielded    my    humble    innocence    from 

wrong, 
I  should  have  sought  my  sorrow  and  my 

shame 
With  willing  steps.  —  Livia,  quick,  bring 

my  cloak, 
For  I   must  seek  refuge  from   these  ex- 
tremes 
Even  in  the  temple  of  the  highest  God 
Where  secretly  the  faithful  worship. 
Livia.  Here. 

Justina   (putting  on  her   cloak).      In 
this,  as  in  a  shroud  of  snow,  may  I 
Quench    the    consuming    fire    in  which 

I  burn, 
Wasting  away  ! 

Lisander.  And  I  will  go  with 

thee. 
Livia.     When   once   I  see  them  safe 
out  of  the  house 
I  shall  breathe  freely. 

Justina.  So  do  I  confide 

In  thy  just  favor,  Heaven! 

Lisander.  Lei  us  go. 

Justina.     Thine   is   the    cause,    greaf 
God  !   turn  for  my  sake, 
And  for  thine  own,  mercifully  to  me  ! 


SCFXES  FROM   THE  FAUST  OF  GOETHE. 


<H3 


SCENES   FROM   THE   FAUST  OF 
GOETHE. 

SCENE    I.  —  Prologue   in    Heaven. 
rThe  Lord  and  the  Host  of  Heaven. 
Enter  three  Archangels. 


Raphael. 

The  sun  makes  music  as  of  old 

Amid  the  rival  spheres  of   Heaven, 
On  its  predestined  circle  rolled 

With  thunder  speed :    the  Angels  even 
Draw  strength  from  gazing  on  its  glance, 

Though     none     its     meaning     fathom 
may :  — 
The  world's  unwithered  countenance 

Is  bright  as  at  creation's  day. 


Gabriel. 

And    swift   and   swift,   with  rapid  light- 
ness, 

The  adorned  Earth  spins  silently, 
Alternating  Elysian  brightness 

With  deep  and  dreadful  night;  the  sea 
Foams  in  broad  billows  from  the  deep 

Up  to  the  rocks,  and  rocks  and  ocean, 
Onward,  with  spheres  which  never  sleep, 

Are  hurried  in  eternal  motion. 


Michael. 

And  tempests  in  contention  roar 

From  land  to  sea,  from  sea  to  land; 
And,  raging,  weave  a  chain  of  power, 

Which    girds    the    earth,    as    with 
band. — 
A  flashing  desolation  there, 

Flames  before  the  thunder's  way; 
But  thy  servants,  Lord,  revere 

The  gentle  changes  of  thy  day. 


Chorus  of  the  Three. 

The     Angels     draw    strength     from     thy 
glance, 
Though     no     one     comprehend      thee 
may ;  — 


Thy  world's  unwithered  countenance 
Is  bright  as  on  creation's  day.1 

Enter  MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Mephistopheles.      As    thou,    O    Lord, 
once  more  art  kind  enough 
To  interest  thyself  in  our  affairs  — 
And  ask,  "  How  goes  it  with  you  there 

below?  " 
And  as  indulgently  at  other  times 
Thou  tookest  not  my  visits  in  ill  part, 
Thou   seest   me   here   once  more   among 

thy  household. 
Tho'  I  should  scandalize  this  company, 
You  will  excuse  me  if   I  do  not  talk 
In  the  high   style  which  they  think  fash- 
ionable; 
My    pathos    certainly    would    make  you 

laugh  too, 
Had    you    not    long    since    given    over 

laughing. 
Nothing    know   I    to   say  of    suns    and 
worlds: 


1  Raphael.     The  sun  sounds,  according  to  an- 
cient custom, 
In  the  song  of  emulation  of  his  brother-spheres. 
And  its  fore-written  circle 
Fulfils  with  a  step  of  thunder. 
Its  countenance  gives  the  Angels  strength 
Though  no  one  can  fathom  it. 
Tlie  incredible  high  works 
Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 

Gabriel.     And  swift,  and  inconceivably  swift 
The  adornment  of  earth  winds  itself  round, 
And  exchanges  Paradise-clearness 
With  deep  dreadful  night. 
The  sea  foams  in  broad  waves 
From  its  deep  bottom,  up  to  the  rocks, 
And  rocks  and  sea  are  torn  on  together 
In  the  eternal  swift  course  of  the  spheres. 

Mkhael.     And  storms  roar  in  emulation 
From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea, 
And  make,  raging,  a  chain 
Of  deepest  operation  round  about. 
There  flames  a  flashing  destruction 
Before  the  path  of  the  thunderbolt. 
But  thy  servants.  Lord,  revere 
The  ge'ntle  alternations  of  thy  day. 

Chorus-     Thy  countenance  gives  the  Angels 
strength, 
Though  none  i  an  comprehend  thee : 
And  ail  thy  lofty  works 
Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 

Such  is  a  literal  translation  of  this  astonishing 
chorus;  it  is  impossible  to  represent  in  another 
language  the  melody  of  the  versification;  even 
the  volatile  strength  and  delicacy  of  the  ideas 
escape  in  the  crucible  of  translation,  and  the 
reader  is  surprised  to  find  a  caput  mortuum. 


644 


TRANS  LA  TIONS. 


I  observe   only   how  men   plague  them- 
selves;— 

The   little   god  o'    the   world  keeps  the 
same  stamp, 

As  wonderful  as  on  creation's  day:  — 

A  little  better  would  he  live,  hadst   thou 

Not  given  him  a   glimpse   of    Heaven's 
light 

Which  he  calls  reason,    and  employs  it 
only 

To  live  more  beastly  than  any  beast. 

With  reverence  to  your   Lordship  be  it 
spoken, 

He's  like  one  of  those  long-legged  grass- 
hoppers, 

Whc   flits  and    jumps  about,    and  sings 
for  ever 

The  same  old  song  i'  the  grass.     There 
let  him  lie, 

Burying  his  nose  in  every  heap  of  dung. 
The  Lord.       Have    you    no    more    to 
say?     Do  you  come  here 

Always  to    scold,    and   cavil,   and    com- 
plain? 

Seems    nothing    ever    right    to    you    on 
earth? 
Mephistopheles.     No,  Lord  !  I  find  all 
there,  as  ever,  bad  at  best. 

Even  I  am  sorry  for  man's  days  of  sor- 
row; 

I    could    myself    almost    give    up    the 
pleasure 

Of  plaguing  the  poor  things. 

The  Lord.  Knowest  thou  Faust! 

Mephistopheles.     The  Doctor? 
The  Lord.  Ay;    my  servant  Faust. 

Mephistopheles.  In  truth 

He  serves  you  in  a  fashion  quite  his  own; 

And  the  fool's  meat  and  drink  are  not  of 
earth. 

His  aspirations  bear  him  on  so  far 

That  he  is  half  aware  of  his  own  folly, 

For  he  demands   from  Heaven  its  fairest 
star, 

And   from   the    earth    the  highest   joy  it 
bears, 

Yet   all  things  far,  and  all   things  near, 
are  vain 

To  calm  the  deep  emotions  of  his  breast. 
The  Lord.      Tho'  he  now  serves  me  in 
a  cloud  of  error, 

I  will  soon  lead   him   forth  to   the  clear 
day. 


When  trees  look  green  full  well  the  gar- 
dener knows 
That    fruits   and    blooms   will    deck  the 

coming  year. 
Mephistopheles.        What   will   you  bet 

—  now  I  am  sure  of  winning  — 
Only,  observe    you    give    me    full    per- 
mission 
To  lead  him  softly  on  my  path. 

The  Lord.  As  long 

As  he  shall  live  upon  the  earth,  so  long 
Is  nothing  unto  thee  forbidden  —  Man 
Must  err  till  he  has  ceased  to  struggle. 

Mephistopheles.  Thanks. 

And  that  is  all  I  ask;    for  willingly 
I    never    make    acquaintance    with     the 

dead. 
The  full  fresh  cheeks  of  youth  are  food 

for  me, 
And   if  a  corpse    knocks,    I   am   not   at 

home. 
For  I  am  like  a  cat  —  I  like  to  play 
A  little  with  the  mouse  before  I  eat  it. 
The  L.ord.      Well,  well  !  it  is  permitted 

thee.     Draw  thou 
His  spirit  from  its  springs;  as  thou  find'st 

power, 
Seize  him  and  lead  him  on  thy  downward 

path; 
And  stand  ashamed  when  failure  teaches 

thee 
That  a  good  man,   even  in   his  darkest 

longings, 
Is  well  aware  of  the  right  way. 

ALephistopheles.  Well  and  good. 

I  am  not  in  much  doubt  about  my  bet, 
And  if    I    lose,    then   'tis  your  turn    to 

crow; 
Enjoy    your    triumph    then    with    a    full 

breast. 
Ay;    dust  shall  he  devour,  and  that  with 

pleasure, 
Like  my  old  paramour,  the  famous  Snake. 
The  Lord.      Pray   come   here  when  it 

suits  you;    for  I  never 
Had    much    dislike    for   people   of    your 

sort. 
And,  among  all  the  Spirits  who  rebelled, 
The    knave    was   ever  the    least    tedious 

to  me. 
The  active  spirit  of  man  soon  sleeps,  and 

soon 
He  seeks  unbroken  quiet;  therefore  I 


SCENES  FROM   THE   FAUST  OF  GOETHE. 


645 


Have   given   him   the   Devil  for  a  com- 
panion, 
Who  may  provoke   him   to  some  sort   of 

work, 
And  must  create  for  ever. —But  ye,  pure 
Children  of  God,  enjoy  eternal  beauty;  — 
Let  that  which  ever  operates  and  lives 
Clasp  you  within  the  limits  of  its  love; 
And   seize   with    sweet    and   melancholy 

thoughts 
The  floating  phantoms  of  its  loveliness. 
[Heaven  closes ;  the  Archangels  exeunt. 
Mephistopheles.      From   time  to  time  I 
visit  the  old  fellow, 
And  I  take   care  to  keep  on  good  terms 

with  him. 
Civil  enough  is  the  same  God  Almighty, 
To  talk  so  freely  with  the  Devil  himself. 


SCENE   II.  — May-day  Night. 

Scene.  —  The  Hartz  Mountain,  a  deso- 
late Country.  ■ 

Faust,  Mephistopheles. 

Mephistopheles.     Would  you  not  like 

a  broomstick  ?     As  for  me 
I  wish  I  had  a  good  stout  ram  to  ride; 
For  we  are  still   far   from   the  appointed 

place. 
Faust.      This     knotted     staff    is    help 

enough    for    me, 
Whilst  I  feel  fresh  upon  my  legs.     What 

good 
Is  there  in  making  short  a  pleasant  way? 
To    creep    along    the    labyrinths  of   the 

vales, 
And  climb  those  rocks  where  ever-bab- 
bling springs, 
Precipitate  themselves  in  waterfalls, 
Is  the  true  sport  that  seasons  such  a  path. 
Already  Spring  kindles  the  birchen  spray, 
And   the    hoar    pines    already    feel    her 

breath : 
Shall     she     not     work     also    within    our 

limbs  ! 
Mephistopheles.     Nothing   of    such  an 

influence  do  I  feel. 
My  body  is  all  wintry,  and  I  wish 
The   flowers   upon   our   path  were    frost 

and  snow. 


But  see  how  melancholy  rises  now, 

Dimly  uplifting  her  belated  beam, 

The  blank   unwelcome  round  of  the  red 
moon, 

And  gives  so  bad  a  light,  that  every  step 

One  stumbles  'gainst   some   crag.      With 
your  permission, 

I  '11  call  an  Ignis-fatuus  to  our  aid: 

I  see  one  yonder  burning  jollily. 

Halloo,   my  friend!   may   I    request  that 
you 

Would  favor  us   with   your  bright  com- 
pany? 

Why  should  you   blaze  away  there  to  no 
purpose? 

Tray  be  so  good  as  light  us  up  this  way. 
Jgnis-fattius.      With    reverence    be  it 
spoken,  I  will  try 

To  overcome  the  lightness  of  my  nature: 

Our   course,  you   know,  is  generally  zig- 
zag. 
Mephistopheles.     Ha,    ha!    your  wor- 
ship thinks  you  have  to  deal 

With    men.     Go    straight    on,    in    the 
Devil's    name, 

Or  I  shall  puff  your  flickering  life  out. 
■Ignis-fatuus.  Well, 

I  see  you  are  the  master  of  the  house; 

I  will  accommodate  myself  to  you. 

Only  consider   that  to-night  this  moun- 
tain 

Is  all  enchanted,  and  if  a  Jack-a-lantern 

Shows  you  his  way,  tho'  you  should  miss 
your  own, 

You  ought  not  to  be  too  exact  with  him. 


Faust,  Mephistopheles,  and  Ignis- 
fatuus,  in  alternate  Chorus. 

The  limits  of  the  sphere  of  dream, 
The  bounds  of  true  and  false,  are  past. 

Lead  us  on,  thou  wandering  Gleam, 
Lead  us  onward,  far  and  fast, 
To  the  wide,  the  desert  waste. 

But  see,  how  swift  advance  and  shift 

Trees  behind  trees,  row  by  row,  — 
How,  clift  by  clift,  rocks  bend  and  lift 

Their  frowning  foreheads  as  we  go. 

The  giant-snouted  crags,  ho!   ho! 

How     they    snort,     and     how     they 
blow  ! 


646 


TRANSLA  TfOArS. 


Thro'  the  mossy  sods  and  stones, 
Stream  and  streamlet  hurry  down  — 

A  rushing  throng  !     A  sound  of  song 
Beneath  the  vault  of  Heaven  is  blown  ! 
Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tones 
Of  this  bright  day,  sent  down  to  say 
That  Paradise  on  Earth  is  known, 
Resound  around,  beneath,  above. 
All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 
Finds  a  voice  in  this  blithe  strain, 

Which  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  rill, 
And  vibrates  far  o'er  field  and  vale, 
And  which  Echo,  like  the  tale 
Of  old  times,  repeats  again. 

To-whoo  !  to-whoo  !   near,  nearer  now 
The  sound  of  song,  the  rushing  throng  ! 
Are  the   screech,   the  lapwing,  and  the 

jay, 

All  awake  as  if  't  were  day? 

See,  with  long  legs  and  belly  wide, 

A  salamander  in  the  brake  ! 

Every  root  is  like  a  snake, 
And  along  the  loose  hillside, 
With  strange  contortions  thro'  the  night, 
Curls,  to  seize  or  to  affright; 
And,  animated,  strong,  and  many, 
They  dart  forth  polypus-antennae, 
To  blister  with  their  poison  spume 
The  wanderer.    Thro'  the  dazzling  gloom 
The  many-colored  mice,  that  thread 
The  dewy  turf  beneath  our  tread, 
I^i  troops  each  other's  motions  cross, 
Thro'  the  heath  and  thro'  the  moss; 
And,  in  legions  intertangled, 

The    fire-flies    flit,    and    swarm,    and 
throng, 
Till  all  the  mountain  depths  are  spangled. 

Tell  me,  shall  we  go  or  stay? 

Shall  we  onward?     Come  along  ! 
Everything  around  is  swept 
Forward,  onward,  far  away! 
Trees  and  masses  intercept 
The  sight,  and  wisps  on  every  side 
Are  puffed  up  and  multiplied. 

Mephistopheles.     Now  vigorously  seize 
my  skirt,  and  gain 
This  pinnacle  of  isolated  crag. 
One  may  observe  with  wonder  from  this 

point, 
How  Mammon  glows  among  the   moun- 
tains. 


Faust.  Ay  — 

And    strangely    thro'    the    solid    depth 

below 
A  melancholy  light,  like  the  red  dawn, 
Shoots    from    the    lowest    gorge    of    the 

abyss 
Of    mountains,     lightning     hitherward: 

there  rise 
Pillars  of  smoke,  here  clouds  float  gently 

by; 
Here  the  light  burns  soft  as  the  enkindled 

air, 
Or  the  illumined  dust  of  golden  flowers; 
And   now    it    glides    like    tender    colors 

spreading; 
And  now  bursts  forth  in  fountains  from 

the  earth; 
And  now  it  winds,  one  torrent  of  broad 

light, 
Thro'    the    far   valley    with    a    hundred 

veins; 
And  now  once  more  within  that  narrow 

corner 
Masses  itself  into  intensest  splendor. 
And  near  us,  see,  sparks  spring  out  o* 

the  ground, 
Like    golden    sand    scattered   upon    the 

darkness; 
The    pinnacles    of    that    black    wall    of 

mountains 
That  hems  us  in  are  kindled. 

Mephistopheles.  Rare  :   in  faith  ! 

Does  not   Sir   Mammon  gloriously  illu- 
minate 
His  palace  for  this  festival  —  it  is 
A  pleasure  which  you  had  not   known 

before. 
I  spy  the  boisterous  guests  already. 

Faust.  How 

The  children  of  the  wind  rage  in  the  air  ! 
With  what  fierce  strokes  they  fall  upon 

my  neck  ! 

Mephistopheles. 

Cling  tightly  to  the  old  ribs  of  the  crag. 
Beware  !    for    if    with    them    thou 
warrest 
In     their     fierce     flight     towards     the 
wilderness, 
Their  breath  will  sweep  thee  into   dust5 
and  drag 
Thy  body  to  a  grave  in  the  abyss. 
A  cloud  thickens  the  night. 


SCENES  FROM   THE   FAUST  OF  GOETHE. 


647 


Hark  !     how    the    tempest    crashes 
thro'  the  forest ! 
The    owls     ily    out     in     strange 
affright; 
The  columns  of  the  evergreen  palaces 
Are  split  and  shattered; 
The    roots     creak,    and     stretch,    and 

groan ; 
And  ruinously  overthrown, 

The  trunks  are  crusht  and  shattered 
By     the     fierce     blast's     unconquerable 

stress. 
Over  each  other  crack  and  crash  they  all 
In  terrible  and  intertangled  fall; 
And  thro'  the  ruins  of  the  shaken  moun- 
tain 
The  airs  hiss  and  howl  — 
It  is  not  the  voice  of  the  fountain, 
Nor  the  wolf  in  his  midnight  prowl. 
Dost  thou  not  hear? 

Strange  accents  are  ringing 
Aloft,  afar,  anear? 

The  witches  are  singing  ! 
The  torrent  of  a  raging  wizard  song 
Streams  the  whole  mountain  along. 

Chorus  of  Witches. 
The  stubble  is  yellow,  the  corn  is  green, 

Now  to  the  Brocken  the  witches  go; 
The  mighty  multitude  here  may  be  seen 

Gathering,  wizard  and  witch,  below. 
Sir  Urian  is  sitting  aloft  in  the  air; 

Hey  over  stock  !   and  hey  over  stone  ! 

'Twixt  witches  and  incubi,  what  shall 
be  done? 
Tell  it  who  dare  !   tell  it  who  dare  ! 

A   Voice. 
Upon  a  sow-swine,  whose  farrows  were 
nine, 
Old  Baubo  rideth  alone. 

Chorus. 

Honor  her,  to  whom  honor  is  due, 
Old  mother  Baubo,  honor  to  you  ! 
An  able  sow,  with  old  Baubo  upon  her, 
Is  worthy  of  glory,  and  worthy  of  honor  ! 
The  legion  of  witches  is  coming  behind, 
Darkening    the    night,   and  outspeeding 
the  wind  — 

A   Voice. 
Which  way  comest  thou? 


A   Voice. 

Over  Ilsenstein; 
The  owl  was  awake  in  the  white  moon- 
shine; 
I  saw  her  at  rest  in  her  downy  nest, 
And  she  stared  at  me  with  her   broad, 
bright  eyne. 

Voices. 

And  you  may  now  as  well  take  your 
course  on  to  Hell, 

Since  you  ride  by  so  fast  on  the  head- 
long blast. 

A   I  'oice. 
She  dropt  poison  upon  me  as  I  past. 
Here  are  the  wounds  — 

Chorus  of  Witches. 

Come  away  !  come  along  ! 
The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long, 
But  what  is  that  for  a  Bedlam  throng? 
j   Stick  with   the  prong,  and  scratch  with 

the  broom, 
j   The  child  in  the  cradle  lies  strangled  at 

home, 
!   And  the  mother  is  clapping  her  hands.  — 

Semichorus  of  Wizards  I. 

We  glide  in 

Like   snails  when  the  women   are  all 

away; 

And   from  a  house   once  given   over  to 

sin 

Woman  has  a  thousand  steps  to  stray. 

Semichorus  IF. 

A  thousand  steps  must  a  woman  take 
Where  a  man  but   a  single  spring  will 
make. 

Voices  above. 

Come  with  us,  come  with  us,  from 
Felsensee. 

Voices  below. 

With  what  joy  would  we  fly  thro'  the 

upper  sky ! 
We  are  washed,  we  are  'nointed,  stark 

naked  are  we; 
But  our  toil  and  our  pain  are  for  ever 

in  vain. 


b48 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


Both  Choruses. 
The  wind  is  still,  the  stars  are  fled, 
The  melancholy  moon  is  dead; 
The  magic  notes,  like  spark  on  spark, 
Drizzle,  whistling  thro'  the  dark. 
Come  away  ! 

Voices  below. 
Stay,  oh  stay ! 

Voices  above. 
Out  of  the  crannies  of  the  rocks, 
Who  calls? 

Voices  below. 
Oh,  let  me  join  your  flocks  ! 
I,  three  hundred  years  have  striven 
To     catch    your    skirt     and    mount    to 

Heaven,  — 
And  still  in  vain.     Oh,  might  I  be 
With  company  akin  to  me  ! 

Both  Choruses. 
Some  on  a  ram  and  some  on  a  prong, 
On  poles  and  on  broomsticks  we  flutter 

along; 
Forlorn   is  the  wight  who  can  rise  not 

to-night. 

A  Half-  Witch  below. 
I  have  been  tripping  this  many  an  hour : 
Are  the  others  already  so  far  before? 
No  quiet  at  home,  and  no  peace  abroad  ! 
And  less  methinks  is  found  by  the  road. 

Chorus  of  Witches. 
Come  onward,  away  !  aroint  thee,  aroint ! 
A    witch    to    be    strong    must    anoint  — 

anoint  — 
Then  every  trough  will  be  boat  enough; 
With  a  rag  for  a  sail  we  can  sweep  thro' 

the  sky, 
Who  flies  not  to-night,  when  means  he 

to  fly? 

Both  Choruses. 
We  cling  to  the  skirt,  and  we  strike  on 

the  ground; 
Witch  -  legions     thicken     around      and 

around; 
Wizard-swarms  cover  the  heath  all  over. 
[  'J' hey  ties ce 7id . 
Meph  is top h  eles . 

What   thronging,  dashing,   raging,   rust- 
ling; 


What    whispering,     babbling,     hissing, 

bustling; 
What    glimmering,     spurting,    stinking, 

burning, 
As  Heaven  and  Earth  were  overturning. 
There  is  a  true  witch  element  about  us; 
Take    hold    on    me,    or    we    shall    be 

divided :  — 
Where  are  you? 

Faust  {from  a  distance}.     Here  ! 
Mephistopheles.  What ! 

I  must  exert  my  authority  in  the  house. 
Place    for   young    Voland  !    pray    make 

way,  good  people. 
Take  hold  on  me,  doctor,  and  with  one 

step 
Let    us    escape    from     this    unpleasant 

crowd : 
They  are  too  mad  for  people  of  my  sort. 
Just    there    shines    a    peculiar    kind    of 

light  — 
Something  attracts  me  in  those  bushes. 

Come 
This  way:   we  shall  slip  down  there  in  a 

minute. 
Faust.    Spirit  of  Contradiction  !    Well, 

lead  on  — 
'T  were  a  wise  feat  indeed    to  wander 

out 
Into  the  Brocken  upon  May-day  night, 
And  then  to  isolate  oneself  in  scorn, 
Disgusted  with  the  humors  of  the  time. 
Mephistopheles.     See  yonder,  round  a 

many- colored  flame 
A  merry  club  is  huddled  all  together : 
Even  with  such  little  people  as  sit  there 
One  would  not  be  alone. 

Faust.  Would  that  I  were 

Up    yonder    in    the    glow   and    whirling 

smoke, 
Where    the    blind   million   rush  impetu- 
ously 
To  meet   the  evil    ones;    there    might  I 

solve 
Many  a  riddle  that  torments  me  ! 

Mephistopheles.  Yet 

Many  a  riddle  there  is  tied  anew 
Inextricably.  Let    the    great    world 

rage  ! 
We  will  stay  here  safe  in  the  quiet  dwell- 
ings. 
'T    is   an  old    custom.      Men    have   ever 

built 


SCENES   FROM    THE   FAUST  OF  GOETHE. 


649 


Their  own  small  world  in  the  great  world 

of  all. 
I   see   young  witches  naked   there,  and 

old  ones 
Wisely  attired  with  greater  decency. 
Be  guided   now  by  me,   and    you    shall 

buy 
A    pound   of    pleasure   with  a    dram    of 

trouble. 
I  hear  them  tune  their  instruments  —  one 

must 
Get     used     to     this     damned     scraping. 

Come,  I'll  lead  you 
Among    them;    and   what   there   you   do 

and  see, 
As  a  fresh  compact  'twixt  us  two   shall 

be. 
How  say  you   now?  this  space  is  wide 

enough  — 
Look  forth,  you  cannot   see  the  end  of 

it  — 
A   hundred   bonfires  burn   in  rows,   and 

they 
Who   throng   around  them  seem  innum- 
erable : 
Dancing  and  drinking,  jabbering,  making 

love, 
And   cooking,    are  at   work.     Now   tell 

me,  friend, 
What   is  there  better  in  the  world  than 

this? 
Faust.      In    introducing    us,    do    you 

assume 
The  character  of  wizard  or  of  devil? 
Mephistopheles.      In  truth,  I  generally 

go  about 
In  strict  incognito;    and  yet  one  likes 
To  wear  one's  orders  upon  gala  days. 
I    have    no     ribbon     at    my    knee;    but 

here 
At  home,  the  cloven  foot  is  honorable. 
See   you   that  snail   there?  —  she   comes 

creeping  up, 
And  with  her  feeling  eyes  hath  smelt  out 

something. 
I    could   not,    if    I    would,   mask  myself 

here. 
Come  now,  we  '11  go  about   from  fire  to 

tire: 
I'll  be   the  pimp,  and  you   shall  be  the 

lover. 
[  To  some  old  Women,  ivho  are  sitting 
round  a  heap  of  glimmering  coals. 


Old  gentlewomen,  what  do  you  do  out 

here? 
You  ought  to  be  with  the  young  rioters 
Right  in  the  thickest  of  the  revelry  — 
But  every  one  is  best  content  at  home. 

General. 

Who    dare    confide    in    right    or    a    just 
claim? 
So    much   as   I  have  done  for  them ! 
and  now  — 
With   women   and    the  people   't  is   the 
same, 
Youth  will  stand  foremost  ever,  — age 
may  go 
To  the  dark  grave  unhonored. 

Minister. 

Nowadays 
People  assert  their  rights:  they  go  too 
far; 
But   as   for    me,    the    good    old    times   I 
praise; 
Then    we    were    all    in    all,   't   was 
something  worth 
One's  while  to  be  in  place  and  wear 
a  star; 
That  was  indeed  the  golden  age  on 
earth. 

Parvenu. 
We  too  are  active,  and  we  did  and  do 
What  we  ought   not,  perhaps;    and  yet 

we  now 
Will  seize,  whilst  all  things  are  whirled 

round  and  round, 
A  spoke  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  keep 
our  ground. 

A  uthor. 

Who    now  can  taste   a   treatise    of  deep 
sense 

And    ponderous  volume?   't   is    imperti- 
nence 

To  write  what  none  will  read,  therefore 
will  I 

To    please    the    young    and    thoughtless 
people    try. 
Mephistophcles   (-who   at  once  appears 
to  hare  grown  very  old).      I  find 
the  people  ripe  for  the  last  day, 

Since  I  last  came  up  to  the  wizard  moun- 
tain; 

And  as  my  little  cask  runs  turbid  now, 

So  is  the  world  drained  to  the  dregs. 


6fo 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


Pedlar -witch.  Look  here, 

Gentlemen;  do  not  hurry  on  so  fast 

And  lose  the   chance  of  a  good  penny- 
worth. 

I  have  a  pack  full  of  the  choicest  wares 

Of  every  sort,  and  yet  in  all  my  bundle 

Is  nothing  like  what  may  be  found  on 
earth; 

Nothing  that   in   a    moment    will    make 
rich 

Men  and  the  world  with  fine  malicious 
mischief  — 

There  is  no  dagger  drunk  with  blood;  no 
bowl 

From  which    consuming   poison    may  be 
drained 

By  innocent  and  healthy  lips;  no  jewel, 

The    price    of    an    abandoned    maiden's 
shame; 

No  sword  which  cuts  the  bond  it  cannot 
loose, 

Or  stabs  the  wearer's  enemy  in  the  back; 

No 

Mephistopheles .  Gossip,  you 

know  little  of  these  times. 

What  has  been,  has  been;  what  is  done, 
is  past, 

They  shape  themselves  into  the  innova- 
tions 

They   breed,    and    innovation    drags    us 
with  it. 

The  torrent  of  the  crowd  sweeps  over  us : 

You  think  to  impel,  and  are  yourself  im- 
pelled. 
Faust.     Who  is  that  yonder? 
Mephistopheles.  Mark  her  well. 

It  is 

Lilith. 

Faust.  Who? 

Mephistopheles..  Lilith,  the  first 

wife  of  Adam. 

Beware  of  her  fair  hair,  for  she  excels 

All  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks; 

And  when  she  winds  them  round  a  young 
man's  neck, 

She  will  not  ever  set  him  free  again. 

Fa  ust. 

There  sit  a  girl  and   an    old    woman  — 

they 
Seem  to  be  tired  with  pleasure  and  with 

play. 


Mephistopheles. 

There  is  no  rest  to-night  for  any  one: 
When  one  dance  ends  another  is  begun; 
Come,  let  us  to  it.     We  shall  have   rare 
fun. 
[Faust  dances  and  sings  with  a  girl 
and  Mephistopheles  with  an  old 
Woman. 

Faust. 

I  had  once  a  lovely  dream 

In  which  I  saw  an  apple  tree, 

Where  two  fair  apples  with  their  gleam 
To  climb  and  taste  attracted  me. 

The  Girl. 

She  with  apples  you  desired 
From  Paradise  came  long  ago : 

With  you  I  feel  that  if  required, 
Such  still  within  my  garden  grow. 

Procto-Phantasmist.         What    is    this 

cursed  multitude  about? 
Have  we  not  long  since  proved  to  dem- 
onstration 
That  ghosts  move  not  on  ordinary  feet? 
But  these  are  dancing  just  like  men  and 

women. 
The  Girl.     What  does  he  want  then 

at  our  ball  ? 
Faust.  Oh!  he 

Is  far  above  us  all  in  his  conceit : 
Whilst  we  enjoy,  he  reasons  of  enjoyment ; 
And  any  step  which    in    our    dance  we 

tread, 
If  it  be  left  out  of  his  reckoning, 
Is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  step. 
There  are  few  things  that  scandalize  him 

not : 
And  when  you  whirl  round  in  the  circle 

now, 
As  he  went   round   the  wheel  in   his  old 

mill, 
He  says  that  you  go  wrong  in  all  respects, 
Especially  if  you  congratulate  him 
Upon  the  strength  of  the  resemblance. 

Procto-Phantasmist.  Fly ! 

Vanish!   Unheard-of  impudence  !  What, 

still  there  ! 
In  this   enlightened  age  too,   since  you 

have  been 


SCENES  FROM   THE   FAUST  OF  GOETHE. 


651 


Proved  not  to  exist  !  —  But   this   infernal 

brood 
Will  hear  no  reason  and  endure  no  rule. 
Are   we  so  wise,   and   is    the   pond  still 

haunted  ? 
How  long  have  I  been  sweeping  out  this 

rubbish 
Of  superstition,  and  the  world  will  not 
Come  clean  with  all  my  pains  !  —  it  is   a 

case 
Unheard  of ! 

The  Girl.  Then  leave  off 

teasing  us  so. 
Procto-Phantasmist.    I  tell  you,  spirits, 

to  your  faces  now, 
That  I  should  not  regret  this  despotism 
Of  spirits,  but  that  mine  can  wield  it  not. 
To-night  I  shall  make  poor  work  of  it, 
Yet    I  will   take   a   round  with   you,   and 

hope 
Before  my  last  step  in  the  living  dance 
To  beat  the  poet  and  the  devil  together. 
Mephistopheles.      At    last    he    will    sit 

down  in  some  foul  puddle; 
That  is  his  way  of  solacing  himself; 
Until     some     leech,    diverted     with     his 

gravity, 
Cures  him  of  spirits  and  the  spirit    to- 
gether. 
[  To  Faust,  tvho  has  seceded  from  the 

dance. 
Why  do  you  let  that   fair   girl   pass   from 

you, 
Who  sang  so  sweetly  to  you  in  the  dance? 
Faust.      A  red  mouse  in  the  middle  of 

her  singing 
Sprang  from  her  mouth. 

Mephistopheles.  That  was  all 

right,  my  friend : 
Be  it   enough    that   the    mouse   was   not 

gray. 
Do  not  disturb  your  hour  of  happiness 
With  close  consideration  of  such  trifles. 
Faust.     Then  saw  I  - — - 
Mephistopheles.  What? 

Faust.  Seest  thou  not  a  pale, 

Fair  girl,  standing  alone,  far,  far  away? 
She  drags  herself  now  forward  with  slow 

steps, 
And  seems  as  if  she  moved  with  shackled 

feet: 
I  cannot  overcome  the  thought   that   she 
Is  like  poor  Margaret. 


Mephistopheles.  Let  it  be  — 

pass  on  — 

No    good   can    come    of    it  —  it    is    not 
well 

To   meet  it  —  it   is  an  enchanted  phan- 
tom, 

A     lifeless     idol;      with     its     numbing 
look, 

It  freezes   up    the    blood    of    man;    and 
they 

Who  meet  its  ghastly  stare  are  turned  to 
stone, 

Like  those  who  saw  Medusa. 

Faust.  Oh,  too  true  ! 

Her   eyes  are   like  the   eyes   of  a   fresh 
corpse 

Which  no  beloved  hand  has  closed,  alas  ! 

That  is  the  breast  which  Margaret  yielded 
to  me  — 

Those  are  the  lovely  limbs  which   I   en- 
joyed ! 
Mephistopheles.      It   is  all  magic,  poor 
deluded  fool ! 

She    looks   to    every   one    like    his    first 
love. 
Faust.     Oh,  what  delight !  what  woe  ! 
I  cannot  turn 

My  looks  from  her  sweet  piteous  counte- 
nance. 

How  strangely  does  a  single  blood-red 
line, 

Not  broader  than  the  sharp   edge   of  a 
knife, 

Adorn  her  lovely  neck  ! 

Mephistopheles.  Ay,  she  can  carry 

Her    head    under   her   arm    upon    occa- 
sion; 

Perseus  has  cut    it    off  for   her.     These 
pleasures 

End    in    delusion.  —  Gain     this     rising 
ground, 

It  is  as  airy  here  as  in  a  .   .   . 

And  if  I  am  not  mightily  deceived, 

I  see  a  theatre —  What  may  this  mean  ! 
Attendant.      Quite  a  new  piece,  the 
last  of   seven,  for  't  is 

The  custom  now  to  represent   that   num- 
ber.   • 

'T  is  written  by  a  Dilettante,  and 

The  actors  who  perform  are  Diletf^nti; 

Excuse  me,     gentlemen;     but      I     must 
vanish. 

I  am  a  Dilettante  curtain-lifter. 


652 


JUVENILIA. 


JUVENILIA. 
VERSES   ON   A   CAT. 


A  cat  in  distress, 
Nothing  more,  nor  less; 

Good  folks,  I  must  faithfully  tell  ye, 
As  I  am  a  sinner, 
It  waits  for  some  dinner 

To  stuff  out  its  own  little  belly. 


You  would  not  easily  guess 
All  the  modes  of  distress 

Which  torture  the  tenants  of  earth; 
And  the  various  evils, 
Which  like  so  many  devils, 

Attend  the  poor  souls  from  their  birth. 


Some  a  living  require, 

And  others  desire 
An  old  fellow  out  of  the  way; 

And  which  is  the  best 

I  leave  to  be  guessed, 
For  I  cannot  pretend  to  say. 


One  wants  society, 
Another  variety, 

Others  a  tranquil  life; 
Some  want  food, 
Others,  as  good, 

Only  want  a  wife. 


But  this  poor  little  cat 

Only  wanted  a  rat, 
To  stuff  out  its  own  little  maw; 

And  it  were  as  good 

Some  people  had  such  food, 
To  make  them  hold  their  jaw  ! 

FRAG M  ENT :  O M  ENS. 

Hark  !  the  owlet  flaps  his  wings 
In  the  pathless  dell  beneath; 

Hark  !  't  is  the  night-raven  sings 
Tidings  of  approaching  death. 


EPITAPHIUM. 

[Latin  Version  of  the    Epitaph   in 
Gray's  Elegy.] 


Hie  sinu  fessum  caput  hospitali 
Cespitis  dormit  juvenis,  nee  illi 
Fata  ridebant,  popularis  ille 

Nescius  aurse. 


Musa  non  vultu  genus  arroganti 
Rustica  natum  grege  despicata, 
Et  suum  tristis  puerum  notavit 

Sollicitudo. 


Indoles  illi  bene  larga,  pectus 
Veritas  sedem  sibi  vindicavit, 
Et  pari  tantis  meritis  beavit 

Munere  ccelum. 

IV. 

Omne  quod  mcestis  habuit  miserto 
Corde  largivit  lacrymam,  recepit 
Omne  quod  ccelo  voluit,  fidelis 

Pectus  amici. 


Longius  sed  tu  fuge  curiosus 
Cseteras  laudes  fuge  suspicari, 
Cseteras  culpas  fuge  velle  tractas 

Sede  tremenda. 


Spe  tremescentes  recubant  in  ilia 
Sede  virtutes  pariterque  culpa?, 
In  sui  Patris  gremio,  tremenda 

Sede  Deique. 


IN    HOROLOGIUM. 

Inter     marmoreas     Leonora?     pendula 

colles 
Fortunata  nimis  Machina  dicit  horas. 
Quas   manibus  premit  ilia  duas  insensa 

papillas 
Cur  mihi  sit  digito  tangere,  amata,  nefas? 


A    DIALOGUE. 


653 


SONG    FROM    THE    WANDERING 
JEW. 

See  yon  opening  flower 

Spreads  its  fragrance  to  the  blast; 
It  fades  within  an  hour, 

Its  decay  is  pale  —  is  fast. 
Paler  is  yon  maiden; 

Faster  is  her  heart's  decay; 
Deep  with  sorrow  laden, 

She  sinks  in  death  away. 

FRAGMENT    FROM    THE 
WANDERING    JEW. 

The  Elements  respect  their  Maker's  seal  ! 

Still  like  the  scathed  pine  tree's  height, 

Braving  the  tempests  of  the  night 
Have  I  'scap'd  the  bickering  flame. 
Like  the  scath'd   pine,   which  a  monu- 
ment stands 
Of  faded  grandeur,  which  the  brands 

Of  the  tempest-shaken  air 
Have  riven  on  the  desolate  heath; 
Yet  it  stands  majestic  even  in  death, 

And  rears  its  wild  form  there. 


A    DIALOGUE. 


For  my  dagger  is  bathed  in  the  blood  of 
the  brave, 

I  come,  care-worn  tenant  of  life,  from 
the  grave, 

Where  Innocence  sleeps  'neath  the 
peace-giving  sod, 

And  the  good  cease  to  tremble  at  Tyr- 
anny's nod; 

I  offer  a  calm  habitation  to  thee, 

Say,  victim  of  grief,  wilt  thou  slumber 
with  me? 

My  mansion  is  damp,  cold  silence  is 
there, 

But  it  lulls  in  oblivion  the  fiends  of  de- 
spair, 

Not  a  groan  of  regret,  not  a  sigh,  not  a 
breath, 

Dares  dispute  with  grim  Silence  the  em- 
pire of  Death. 


I  offer  a  calm  habitation  to  thee, 
Say,   victim  of  grief,  wilt  thou  slumber 
with  me? 


Mine  eyelids  are  heavy;  my  soul  seeks 
repose, 

It  longs  in  thy  cells  to  embosom  its  woes, 

It  longs  in  thy  cells  to  deposit  its  load, 

Where  no  longer  the  scorpions  of  Perfidy 
goad; 

Where  the  phantoms  of  Prejudice  vanish 
away, 

And  Bigotry's  bloodhounds  lose  scent  of 
their  prey; 

Vet  tell  me,  dark  Death,  when  thine  em- 
pire is  o'er, 

What  awaits  on  Futurity's  mist-covered 
shore  ? 

DEATH. 

Cease,  cease,   wayward   Mortal !  I   dare 

not  unveil 
The  shadows  that  float  o'er    Eternity's 

vale; 
Naught  waits  for  the  good  but  a  spirit 

of  Love, 
That     will     hail     their    blest    advent  to 

regions  above. 
For    Love,     Mortal,    gleams    thro'    the 

gloom  of  my  sway, 
I   And   the   shades  which  surround  me  fly 

fast  at  its  ray. 
Hast    thou    loved?  —  Then    depart    from 

these  regions  of  hate, 
And    in     slumber    with     me     blunt     the 

arrows  of   fate. 
I  offer  a  calm  habitation  to  thee, 
Say,  victim   of  grief,    wilt   thou  slumber 

with  me? 

MORTAL. 

Oh,  sweet  is  thy  slumber!  oh!  sweet  is 

the  ray 
Which    after    thy    night    introduces    the 

day; 
How    concealed,   how    persuasive,    self- 
interest's  breath, 
Tho'     it    floats    to    mine    ear    from    the 

bosom  of  Death ! 


654 


JUVENILIA. 


I    hoped  that   I   quite  was  forgotten  by 

all, 
Yet  a  lingering  friend  might  be  grieved 

at  my  fall, 
And    duty    forbids,    tho'    I    languish    to 

die, 
When    departure    might    heave    Virtue's 

breast  with  a  sigh. 
O  Death !  O  my  friend !  snatch  this  form 

to  thy  shrine, 
And  I  fear,  dear  destroyer,  I  shall  not 

repine. 

TO   THE   MOONBEAM. 


Moonbeam,  leave  the  shadowy  vale, 

To  bathe  this  burning  brow. 
Moonbeam,  why  art  thou  so  pale, 
As  thou  walkest  o'er  the  dewy  dale, 
Where  humble  wild-flowers  grow? 
Is  it  to  mimic  me? 
But  that  can  never  be ; 
For  thine  orb  is  bright, 
And  the  clouds  are  light, 
That  at  intervals  shadow  the  star-studded 
night. 

II. 

Now  all  is  deathly  still  on  earth, 

Nature's  tired  frame  reposes, 
And  ere  the  golden  morning's  birth 
Its  radiant  hues  discloses, 

Flies  forth  its  balmy  breath. 
But    mine   is    the    midnight    of 

Death, 
And  Nature's  morn, 
To  my  bosom  forlorn, 
Brings  but  a  gloomier  night,  implants  a 
deadlier  thorn. 


Wretch !    Suppress  the  glare  of  mad- 
ness 
Struggling  in  thine  haggard  eye, 
For  the  keenest  throb  of  sadness, 
Pale  Despair's  most  sickening  sigh, 
Is  but  to  mimic  me ; 
And  this  must  ever  be, 
When  the  twilight  of  care, 
And  the  night  of  despair, 
Seem  in  my  breast  but  joys  to  the   pangs 
that  rankle  there. 


THE  SOLITARY. 


Dar'st  thou  amid  the  varied  multitude 
To  live  alone,  an  isolated  thing? 
To    see   the   busy  beings  round    the* 
spring 
And  care  for  none;   in  thy  calm  solitude, 
A    flower   that    scarce    breathes    in    the 
desert  rude 

To  Zephyr's  passing  wing? 


Not    the    swart    Pariah  in  some    Indian 
grove, 
Lone,  lean,  and  hunted  by  his  brother's 

hate, 
Hath  drunk  so  deep  the  cup  of  bitter 
fate 
As  that  poor  wretch  who  cannot,  cannot 

love: 
He    bears    a    load    which    nothing   can 
remove, 

A  killing,  withering  weight. 


He    smiles  —  't    is    sorrow's    deadliest 
mockery; 
He  speaks  —  the  cold  words  flow  not 

from  his  soul; 
He  acts  like  others,  drains  the  genial 
bowl,  — 
Yet,  yet  he  longs  —  altho'  he  fears  —  to 

die; 
He  pants  to  reach  what  yet  he  seems  to 

fly, 

Dull  life's  extremest  goal. 

TO    DEATH. 

Death  !  where  is  thy  victory? 
To  triumph  whilst  I  die, 
To  triumph  whilst  thine  ebon  wing 

Infolds  my  shuddering  soul. 
O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting? 

Not  when  the  tides  of  murder  roll, 
When   nations    groan,    that    kings    may 

bask  in  bliss. 
Death  !   canst  thou   boast   a  victory  such 
as  this? 
When  in  his  hour  of  pomp  and  power 


LOVE'S  ROSE. 


655 


His   blow    the    mightiest    murderer 
gave, 

Mid  nature's  cries  the  sacrifice 
Of  millions  to  glut  the  grave; 

When  sunk  the  tyrant  desolation's  slave; 

Or  Freedom's  life-blood  streamed   upon 
thy  shrine; 

Stern  tyrant,   couldst  thou  boast  a  vic- 
tory such  as  mine? 

To  know  in  dissolution's  void, 

That  mortals'  baubles  sunk,  decay, 
That  everything,  but  Love,  destroyed 
Must  perish  with  its  kindred  clay. 
Perish  Ambition's  crown, 
F'erish  her  sceptred  sway; 
From   Death's    pale  front  fades    Pride's 

fastidious  frown. 
In    Death's    damp  vault    the  lurid    fires 

decay, 
That  Envy  lights  at  heaven-born  Virtue's 
beam  — 
That  all  the  cares  subside, 
Which  lurk  beneath  the  tide 
Of  life's  unquiet  stream. 
Yes  !   this  is  victory  ! 
And    on    yon     rock,  whose    dark    form 

glooms  the  sky, 
To  stretch  these  pale    limbs,    when  the 
soul  is  fled; 
To    baffle    the    lean  passions  of    their 
prey, 
To  sleep  within  the  palace  of  the  dead  ! 
Oh  !   not  the   King,   around  whose    daz- 
zling throne 
His  countless  courtiers  mock  the  words 
they  say, 
Triumphs  amid  the  bud  of  glory  blown, 
As  I  in  this  cold  bed,  and  faint    expiring 
groan  ! 

Tremble,     ye     proud,     whose     grandeur 
mocks  the  woe, 
Which  props  the  column  of  unnatural 
state, 
You  the  plainings  faint  and  low, 
From     misery's     tortured    soul   that 
flow, 
Shall  usher  to  your  fate. 

Tremble,    ye    conquerors,    at  whose   fell 

command 
The  war-fiend  riots  o'er  a  peaceful  land. 


You  desolation's  gory  throng 
Shall  hear  from  Victory  along 
To  that  mysterious  strand. 


LOVE'S   ROSE. 


1. 


Hopes,  that  swell  in  youthful  breasts, 

Live  not  thro'  the  waste  of  time? 
Love's  rose  a  host  of  thorns  invests; 

Cold,  ungenial  is  the  clime, 

Where  its  honors  blow. 
Youth    says,    The    purple    flowers    are 
mine, 

Which  die  the  while  they  glow. 


Dear  the  boon  to  Fancy  given, 

Retracted  whilst  it 's  granted: 
Sweet  the  rose  which  lives  in  heaven, 

Altho'  on  earth  't  is  planted, 

Where  its  honors  blow, 
While   by  earth's   slaves   the   leaves  zxi 
riven 

Which  die  the  while  they  glow. 


Age  cannot  Love  destroy, 

But  perfidy  can  blast  the  flower, 
Even  when  in  most  unwary  hour 
It  blooms  in  Fancy's  bower. 
Age  cannot  Love  destroy, 
But  perfidy  can  rend  the  shrine 
In  which  its  vermeil  splendors  shine. 


EYES  :    A   FRAGMENT. 

How  eloquent  are  eyes ! 
Not  the  rapt  poet's  frenzied  lay 
When  the  soul's  wildest  feelings  stray 

Can  speak  so  well  as  they. 

How  eloquent  are  eyes! 
Not  music's  most  impassioned  note 
On  which  love's  warmest  fervors  float 

Like  them  bids  rapture  rise. 


656 


JUVENILIA. 


Love,  look  thus  again,  — 
That    your   look    may   light    a   waste    of 

years, 
Darting  the  beam  that  conquers  cares 

Thro'  the  cold  shower  of  tears. 

Love,  look  thus  again  ! 


POEMS    FROM    ST.    IRVYNE,    OR 
THE   ROSICRUCIAN. 


I.  —  Victoria. 


'T  was  dead  of  the  night,  when  I  sat  in 

my  dwelling; 
One    glimmering    lamp    was    expiring 

and  low; 
Around,   the   dark    tide   of    the   tempest 

was  swelling, 
Along   the  wild  mountains  night-ravens 

were  yelling,  — 
They    bodingly    presaged    destruction 

and  woe. 


'T  was  then  that  I    started  !  —  the  wild 
storm  was  howling, 
Nought  was  seen,  save  the  lightning, 
which  danced  in  the  sky; 
Above  me,  the  crash  of  the  thunder  was 
rolling, 
And  low,  chilling  murmurs,  the  blast 
wafted  by. 


My   heart    sank    within    me  —  unheeded 
the  war 
Of  the  battling  clouds,  on  the  moun- 
tain-tops, broke;  — 

Unheeded     the     thunder-peal    crasht     in 
mine  ear  — 

This  heart,  hard  as  iron,   is  stranger  to 
fear; 
But  conscience  in  low,  noiseless  whis- 
pering spoke. 


'T  was  then  that   her  form  on   the  whirl- 
wind upholding, 


The    ghost    of    the    murder'd   Victoria 

strode; 
In    her    right    hand,    a    shadowy   shroud 

she  was  holding, 
She  swiftly  advane'd  to  my  lonesome 

abode. 


I  wildly  then  call'd  on   the  tempest   ti 
bear  me  — 


II.  —  "On  the  Dark  Height 
of  Jura." 

1. 

Ghosts  of  the  dead !  have  I  not  heard 
your  yelling 
Rise    on    the    night-rolling    breath    of 
the  blast, 
When  o'er  the  dark  ether  the  tempest  is 
swelling, 
And  on  eddying  whirlwind  the  thun- 
der-peal past? 

II. 

For  oft  have  I  stood  on  the  dark  height 
of  Jura, 
Which  frowns  on  the  valley  that  opens 
beneath; 
Oft   have   I   brav'd   the  chill   night-tem- 
pest's fury, 
Whilst  around  me,  I  thought,  echo'd 
murmurs  of  death. 

III. 

And  now,  whilst  the  winds  of  the  moun- 
tain are  howling, 
O    father !     thy  voice  seems   to   strike 
on  mine  ear; 
In  air  whilst  the  tide  of  the  night-storm 
is  rolling, 
It  breaks  on  the  pause  of  the  elements' 
jar. 

IV. 

On    the    wing    of    the    whirlwind    which 
roars  o'er  the  mountain 
Perhaps    rides    the    ghost    of    my    sire 
who  is  dead; 


POEMS  FROM  ST.    JRVYAE,    OR    THE   R0S1  CRUCIAN 


657 


Oa  the  mist  of  the  tempest  which  hangs 
o'er  the  fountain, 
Whilst    a    wreath    of    dark   vapor   en- 
circles his  head. 

III.  —  Sister  Rosa:    A  Ballad. 

1. 

The  death-bell  beats  !  — 

The  mountain  repeats 
The  echoing  sound  of  the  knell; 

And  the  dark  monk  now 

Wraps  the  cowl  round  his  brow, 
As  he  sits  in  his  lonely  cell. 

11. 

And  the  cold  hand  of  death 
Chills  his  shuddering  breath, 

As  he  lists  to  the  fearful  lay 
Which  the  ghosts  of  the  sky, 
As  they  sweep  wildly  by, 

Sing  to  departed  day. 

And  they  sing  of  the  hour 
When  the  stern  fates  had  power 

To  resolve  Rosa's  form  to  its  clay. 

III. 

But  that  hour  is  past; 

And  that  hour  was  the  last 
Of  peace  to  the  dark  monk's  brain. 

Bitter    tears,     from    his    eyes,     gusht 
silent  and  fast; 
And  he  strove  to  suppress  them  in  vain. 

IV. 

Then   his   fair  cross  of   gold  he   dasht 
on  the  floor, 
When  the  death-knell  struck  on  his  ear. 

Delight  is  in  store 

For  her  evermore; 
But  for  me  is  fate,  horror,  and  fear. 


Then  his  eyes  wildly  roll'd, 
When  the  death-bell  toll'd, 

And  he  raged  in  terrific  woe. 

And  he  stampt  on  the  ground,— 
But  when  ceast  the  sound, 

Tears  again  began  to  flow. 


And  the  ice  of  despair 
Chill 'd  the  wild  throb  of  care, 
And  he  sate  in  mute  agony  still; 

Till    the    night-stars    shone    thro'    the 
cloudless  air, 
And    the    pale   moonbeam  slept  on  the 
hill. 


Then  he  knelt  in  his  cell:  — 

And  the  horrors  of  hell 
Were  delights  to  his  agonized  pain, 

And  he  prayed  to  God  to  dissolve  the 
spell, 
Which  else  must  for  ever  remain. 


VIII. 

And  in  fervent  prayer  he   knelt  on  the 
ground, 
Till  the  abbey  bell  struck  One : 
His    feverish    blood    ran    chill    at    the 

sound: 
A  voice  hollow  and   horrible  murmured 
around  — 
"  The  term  of  thy  penance  is  done  !  " 


Grew  dark  the  night; 

The  moonbeam  bright 
Waxt  faint  on  the  mountain  high; 

And,  from  the  black  hill, 

Went  a  voice  cold  and  still,  — ■ 
"  Monk  !  thou  art  free  to  die." 


Then  he  rose  on  his  feet, 
And  his  heart  loud  did  beat, 
And   his   limbs    they  were   palsied  with 
dread; 
Whilst  the  grave's  clammy  dew 
O'er  his  pale  forehead  grew; 
And    he    shuddered    to    sleep    with    the 
dead. 


And  the  wild  midnight  storm 
Raved  around  his  tall  form, 


658 


JUVENILIA. 


As  he  sought  the  chapel's  gloom: 
And  the  sunk  grass  did  sigh 
To  the  wind,  bleak  and  high, 

As  he  searcht  for  the  new-made  tomb. 


And  forms,  dark  and  high, 
Seemed  around  him  k>  fly, 

And  mingle  their  yells  with  the  blast 
And  on  the  dark  wall 
Half-seen  shadows  did  fall, 

As  enhorrored  he  onward  past. 


And  the  storm-fiend's  wild  rave 

O'er  the  new-made  grave, 
And  dread  shadows,  linger  around. 

The  Monk  called   on  God  his  soul  to 
save, 
And,  in  horror,  sank  on  the  ground. 

XIV. 

Then  despair  nerved  his  arm 

To  dispel  the  charm, 
And  he  burst  Rosa's  coffin  asunder. 

And  the  fierce  storm  did  swell 

More  terrific  and  fell, 
And  louder  pealed  the  thunder. 


And  laught,  in  joy,  the  fiendish  throng, 
Mixt  with    ghosts    of   the    mouldering 
dead: 
And  their   grisly   wings,    as   they   floated 
along, 
Whistled  in  murmurs  dread. 


And    her   skeleton    form    the   dead    Nun 
reared 
Which    dript    with    the    chill    dew    of 
hell. 
In     her    half-eaten     eyeballs    two    pale 

flames   appeared, 
And  triumphant  their  gleam  on  the  dark 
Monk  glared, 
As  he  stood  within  the  cell. 


And  her  lank  hand  lay  on  his  shuddering 
brain; 
But  each  power  was  nerved  by  fear.  — ■ 
"  I     never,     henceforth,    may     breathe 

again; 
Death  now  ends  mine  anguisht  pain.  — 
The  grave  yawns,  —  we  meet  there." 

XVIII. 

And    her    skeleton    lungs    did    utter    the 
sound, 
So  deadly,  so  lone,  and  so  fell, 
That   in    long  vibrations    shuddered  the 

ground; 
And  as  the  stern  notes  floated  around, 
A  deep  groan  was  answered  from  hell. 


IV.  —  St.  Irvyne's  Tower. 


How    swiftly   thro'    heaven's    wide    ex- 
panse 
Bright  day's  resplendent  colors  fade  ! 
How    sweetly    does     the     moonbeam's 
glance 
With  silver  tint  St.  Irvyne's  glade  ! 


No  cloud  along  the  spangled  air, 
Is  borne  upon  the  evening  breeze; 

How  solemn  is  the  scene  !   how  fair 
The  moonbeams  rest  upon  the  trees 


Von  dark  grey  turret  glimmers  white, 
Upon  it  sits  the  mournful  owl; 

Along  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
Her  melancholy  shriekings  roll. 


But  not  alone  on  Irvyne's  tower, 

The  silver  moonbeam  pours  her  ray; 

It  gleams  upon  the  ivied  bower, 
It  dances  in  the  cascade's  spray. 


Ah  !  why  do  darkening  shades  conceal 
The   hour   when   man   must    cease    to 
be? 


POEMS  FROM  ST.   IRVYNE,    OR    THE   ROSICRUCIAN.         659 


Why  may  not  human  minds  unveil 
The  dim  mists  of  futurity? 


"The  keenness  of  the  world  hath  torn 
The  heart  which  opens  to  its  blast; 

Despised,  neglected,  and  forlorn, 
Sinks  the  wretch  in  death  at  last." 


V.  —  Bereavement. 


How  stern  are  the  woes  of  the  desolate 

mourner, 
As    he    bends    in    still    grief    o'er    the 

hallowed  bier, 
As  enanguisht  he  turns  from   the  laugh 

of  the  scorner, 
And    drops,    to    perfection's    remem- 
brance, a  tear; 
When  floods  of  despair   down  his   pale 

cheek  are  streaming, 
When  no  blissful  hope  on   his  bosom  is 

beaming, 
Or,  if  lulled  for  awhile,  soon  he   starts 

from  his  dreaming, 
And  finds  torn  the  soft  ties  to  affection 

so  dear. 


Ah  !  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night   I 

of  the  grave, 
Or  summer  succeed  to  the   winter   of 

death? 
Rest  awhile,  hapless  victim,  and  Heaven 

will  save 
The  spirit,  that   faded  away  with  the 

breath. 
Eternity  points  in  its  amaranth  bower, 
Where  no  clouds  of   fate  o'er  the  sweet 

prospect  lower, 
Unspeakable   pleasure,  of  goodness   the 

dower, 
When  woe  fades   away  like   the  mist 

of  the  heath. 


VI.  —  The  Drowned  Lover. 

1. 

Ah!     aint  are  her   limbs,  and   her   foot- 
step is  weary, 


Yet    far   must    the   desolate    wanderer 
roam; 
Tho'  the  tempest  is  stern,  and  the  moun- 
tain is  dreary, 
She   must  quit   at  deep  midnight  her 
pitiless  home. 
I  see  her  swift   foot  dash   the  dew  from 

the  whortle, 
As  she  rapidly  hastes  to  the  green  grove 

of  myrtle; 
And    I    hear,   as  she    wraps    round  her 
figure  the  kirtle, 
"  Stay  thy  boat  on  the  lake,  —  dearest 
Henry,  I  come." 


High  swelled  in  her  bosom  the  throb  of 

affection, 
As  lightly  her  form  bounded  over  the 

lea, 
And  arose  in  her  mind  every  dear  recol- 
lection; 
"  I  come,    dearest   Henry,   and    wait 

but  for  thee." 
How  sad,  when  dear  hope  every  sorrow 

is  soothing, 
When  sympathy's  swell  the  soft   bosom 

is  moving, 
And  the  mind  the  mild  joys  of  affection 

is  proving, 
Is   the    stern   voice   of    fate   that  bids 

happiness  flee  ! 


Oh !    dark   lowered   the   clouds  on   that 
horrible  eve, 
And  the  moon  dimly  gleamed  thro'  the 
tempested  air; 

Oh  !   how  could   fond  visions   such  soft- 
ness deceive? 
Oh!     how   could    false    hope    rend    a 
bosom  so  fair? 

Thy  love's   pallid  corse   the  wild  surges 
are  laving, 

O'er  his  form  the  fierce  swell  of  the  tem- 
pest is  raving; 

But,  fear  not,  parting  spirit;   thy  good- 
ness is  saving, 
In  eternity's  bowers,   a  seat  for  thee 
there. 


66o 


JUVENILIA. 


POSTHUMOUS  FRAGMENTS 
OF  MARGARET  NICHOL- 
SON. 

Being  Poems  found  amongst  the  Papers 
of  that  noted  Female  who  attempted 
the  life  of  the  King  in  1786.  Edited 
by  John  Fitzvictor. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  energy  and  native  genius  of  these 
Fragments  must  be  the  only  apology 
which  the  Editor  can  make  for  thus  in- 
truding them  on  the  public  notice.  The 
first  I  found  with  no  title,  and  have  left 
it  so.  It  is  intimately  connected  with 
the  dearest  interests  of  universal  happi- 
ness; and  much  as  we  may  deplore  the 
fatal  and  enthusiastic  tendency  which 
the  ideas  of  this  poor  female  had  ac- 
quired, we  cannot  fail  to  pay  the  tribute 
of  unequivocal  regret  to  the  departed 
memory  of  genius,  which,  had  it  been 
rightly  organized,  would  have  made  that 
intellect,  which  has  since  become  the  vic- 
tim of  frenzy  and  despair,  a  most  bril- 
liant ornament  to  society. 

In  case  the  sale  of  these  Fragments 
evinces  that  the  public  have  any  curiosity 
to  be  presented  with  a  more  copious  col- 
lection of  my  unfortunate  Aunt's  poems, 
I  have  other  papers  in  my  possession 
which  shall,  in  that  case,  be  subjected  to 
their  notice.  It  may  be  supposed  they 
require  much  arrangement;  but  I  send 
the  following  to  the  press  in  the  same 
state  in  which  they  came  into  my  pos- 
session. J.  F. 

POSTHUMOUS    FRAGMENTS. 

Ambition,  power,  and  avarice,  now  have 
hurled 

Death,  fate,  and  ruin,  on  a  bleeding 
world. 

See  !  on  yon  heath  what  countless  vic- 
tims lie,  ' 

Hark !  what  loud  shrieks  ascend  thro' 
yonder  sky; 


Tell  then  the   cause,  'tis  sure  the  aven 

ger's  rage 
Has    swept    these    myriads    from    life's 

crowded  stage : 
Hark  to  that  groan,    an  anguisht    hero 

dies, 
He  shudders  in  death's  latest  agonies; 
Yet    does    a    fleeting    hectic    flush    his 

cheek, 
Yet    does    his    parting    breath    essay    to 

speak  — ■ 
"  Oh   God  !  my  wife,  my  children,  — 

Monarch,  thou 
For  whose    support    this    fainting  frame 

lies  low; 
For  whose    support    in    distant    lands  I 

bleed, 
Let  his  friends'  welfare   be  the  warrior's 

meed. 
He  hears  me  not  —  ah!   no  —  kings  can- 
not hear, 
For  passion's  voice  has  dulled  their  list- 
less ear. 
To    thee,    then,    mighty  God,  I  lift  my 

moan, 
Thou  wilt    not    scorn    a  suppliant's  an- 
guisht   groan. 
Oh !    now    I    die  —  but    still    is    death's 

fierce    pain  — 
God    hears    my    prayer  —  we    meet,    we 

meet   again." 
He  spake,  reclined  him  on  death's  bloody 

bed, 
And  with  a  parting  groan  his  spirit  fled. 
Oppressors    of    mankind    to   you    we 

owe 
The  baleful  streams   from  whence  these 

miseries  flow; 
For  you  how  many  a  mother  weeps  her 

son, 
Snatcht  from    life's  course  ere  half  his 

race  was  run  ! 
For    you    how    many  a  widow    drops  a 

tear, 
In  silent  anguish,  on  her  husband's  bier  ! 
"  Is  it   then  thine,  Almighty  Power," 

she  cries, 
"  Whence   tears   of  endless   sorrow   dim 

these  eyes? 
Is  this   the   system   which   thy   powerful 

sway, 
Which  else  in  shapeless  chaos  sleeping 

lay,  • 


rOSTJUWOUS  FRAGMENTS   OF  MARGARET  NICHOLSON.     661 


Formed  and  approved?  — -it  cannot  be — 

but  oh : 

Forgive  me,   Heaven,  my  brain  is  warpt 

by  woe." 
'T  is  not  —  he  never  bade  the  war-note 

swell, 
He  never  triumpht  in  the  work  of  hell  — 
Monarchs  of   earth  !   thine  is  the  baleful 

deed, 
Thine  are   the  crimes  for  which   thy  sub- 
jects bleed. 
Ah  !    when    will   come   the   sacred   fated 

time, 
When     man     unsullied    by    his    leaders' 

crime, 
Despising  wealth,   ambition,   pomp,  and 

pride, 
Will  stretch  him  fearless  by  his  foeman's 

side? 
Ah  !   when  will  come  the  time,  when  o'er 

the  plain 
No    more    shall    death    and    desolation 

reign  ? 
When  will   the   sun   smile   on  the  blood- 
less field, 
And  the    stern  warrior's  arm  the  sickle 

wield? 
Not   whilst    some    King,    in  cold  ambi- 
tion's dreams, 
Tlans  for  the  field  of  death  his  plodding 

schemes; 
Not  whilst    for   private   pique   the  public 

fall, 
And  one  frail  mortal's  mandate  governs 

all. 
Swelled    with    command    and    mad  with 

dizzying  sway; 
Who    sees    unmoved    his    myriads    fade 

away. 
Careless  who   lives  or  dies — so  that  he 

gains 
Some  trivial  point  for  which  he  took  the 

pains. 
What  then  are  Kings?  —  I  see  the  trem- 
bling crowd, 
I    hear    their    fulsome     clamors     echoed 

loud; 
Their    stern   oppressor    pleased    appears 

awhile, 
But    April's    sunshine    is    a    Monarch's 

smile  — 
Kings   are  but  dust  —  the    last    eventful 

day 


j   Will  level  all  and   make   them  lose   thei> 
sway; 
Will  dash  the  sceptre  from  the  Monarch's 

hand, 
And  from  the  warrior's  grasp  wrest  the 
ensanguined  brand. 
Oh !     Peace,  soft    peace,    art   thou  for 
ever  gone, 
Is  thy  fair  form  indeed  for  ever  flown? 
And  love  and    concord   hast  thou  swept 
away, 
j   As     if     incongruous     with     thy     parted 

sway  ? 
j    Alas    I    fear    thou    hast,     for    none    ap- 
pear, 
!  Now  o'er  the  palsied  earth  stalks  giant 

Fear, 
'■•   With  War,  and  Woe,  and  Terror,  in   his 
train; 
Listening   he    pauses   on    the   embattled 
plain, 
i   Then    speeding   swiftly   o'er    the  ensan- 
guined heath, 
Has   left  the   frightful  work  to  hell  and 

death. 
See  !  gory  Ruin  yokes  his  blood-stained 
car, 
i    He  scents  the  battle's  carnage  from  afar; 
!    Hell     and     destruction     mark    his     mad 
career, 
He   tracks    the   rapid    step    of    hurrying 

Fear; 
Whilst  ruined  towns  and   smoking  cities 
tell, 
J  That  thy  work,  Monarch,  is  the  work  of 

hell. 
!   It  is  thy  work  !   I  hear  a  voice  repeat, 
j   Shakes    the    broad    basis  of    thy   blood- 
stained seat; 
'  And  at   the   orphan's  sigh,  the  widow's 
moan, 
Totters    the    fabric   of    thy  guilt-stained 

throne  — 
"It   is   thy   work,    O   Monarch;"    now 

the   sound 
Fainter  and  fainter,  yet  is  borne  around, 
I   Vet  to  enthusiast  ears  the  murmurs  tell 
J  That   heaven,   indignant   at   the  work  of 
hell, 
Will    soon    the    cause,   the  hated   cause 

remove, 
Which    tears    from    earth    peace,    inno- 
cence, and  love. 


662 


JUVENILIA. 


FRAGMENT. 

SUPPOSED   TO   BE   AN    EPITHALAMIUM 

OF    FRANCIS    RAVAILLAC    AND 

CHARLOTTE    CORDE. 

'T  IS  midnight  now  —  athwart  the  murky 
air, 
Dank    lurid    meteors    shoot    a    lurid 
gleam ; 
From  the    dark    storm-clouds    flashes    a 
fearful  glare, 
It  shows  the  bending  oak,  the  roaring 
stream. 
I  ponder'd  on  the  woes  of  lost  mankind, 
I   ponder'd  on   the    ceaseless  rage   of 
Kings; 
My  rapt   soul  dwelt   upon   the  ties  that 
bind 
The    mazy    volume    of    commingling 
things, 
When  fell  and  wild  misrule  to  man  stern 

sorrow  brings. 
I  heard  a  yell  —  it  was  not  the  knell, 
When    the   blasts    on    the    wild    lake 
sleep, 
That  floats  on  the  pause  of  the  summer 
gale's  swell, 
O'er  the  breast  of  the  waveless  deep. 

I   thought  it  had   been  death's   accents 
cold 
That  bade  me  recline  on  the  shore; 
I  laid  mine  hot  head  on  the  surge-beaten 
mould, 
And  thought  to  breathe  no  more. 

But  a  heavenly  sleep 
That  did  suddenly  steep 

In  balm  my  bosom's  pain, 
Pervaded  my  soul, 
And  free  from  control, 

Did  mine  intellect  range  again. 

Methought    enthroned    upon    a    silvery 
cloud, 
Which  floated  mid  a  strange  and  bril- 
liant light; 
My  form  upborne  by  viewless  ether  rode, 
And  spurned  the   lessening  realms  of 
earthly  night. 


What   heavenly  notes   burst  on  my  rav- 

isht  ears, 
What  beauteous  spirits  met  my  dazzled 

eye ! 
Hark !    louder   swells  the   music  of  the 

spheres, 
More    clear    the    forms    of    speechless 

bliss  float  by, 
And    heavenly    gestures    suit      ethereal 

melody. 

But  fairer  than  the  spirits  of  the  air, 
More  graceful   than  the  sylph  of  sym- 
metry, 
Than  the  enthusiast's  fancied  love  more 
fair, 
Were  the  bright  forms  that  swept  the 
azure  sky. 
Enthroned  in  .roseate   light,   a  heavenly 
band 
Strewed  flowers  of  bliss  that  never  fade 
away; 
They  welcome  virtue  to  its  native  land, 
And  songs  of  triumph  greet  the  joyous 
day 
When  endless  bliss  the  woes  of  fleeting 
life  repay. 

Congenial  minds  will  seek  their  kindred 
soul, 
E'en  tho'  the  tide  of  time  has  rolled 
between; 
They  mock  weak  matter's  impotent  con- 
trol, 
And  seek   of  endless   life   the  eternal 
scene. 
At  death's  vain  summons  this  will  never 
die, 
In  nature's  chaos  this  will  not  decay  — 
These    are    the    bands    which    closely, 
warmly,  tie 
Thy  soul,  O  Charlotte,  'yond  this  chain 
of  clay, 
To  him  who  thine  must  be  till  time  shall 
fade  away. 

Yes,  Francis  !  thine  was  the  dear   knife 
that  tore 
A  tyrant's  heart-strings  from  his  guilty 
breast, 
Thine  was  the  daring  at  a  tyrant's  gore, 
To  smile   in  triumph,  to  contemn  the 
rest; 


DESPAIR, 


663 


And   thine,   loved  glory   of   thy   sex  !    to 
tear 
From  its  base  shrine  a  despot's  haughty 
soul, 
To  laugh  at  sorrow  in  secure  despair, 
To  mock,  with  smiles,  life's  lingering 
control, 
And   triumph   mid  the  griefs  that  round 
thy  fate  did  roll. 

Yes  !   the   fierce   spirits  of  the  avenging 
deep 
With  endless  tortures  goad  their  guilty 
shades. 
I    see    the    lank    and    ghastly   spectres 
sweep 
Along    the    burning    length    of    yon 
arcades; 
And  I  see  Satan  stalk  athwart  the  plain; 
He   hastes    along   the   burning  soil  of 
hell. 
"Welcome    thou    despots   to    my    dark 
domain, 
With    maddening    joy  mine   anguisht 
senses  swell 
To  welcome  to  their  homes  the  friends  I 
love  so  well." 


Hark  !  to  those   notes,  how  sweet,  how 

thrilling  sweet 
They  echo  to  the  sound  of  angels'  feet. 


Oh  haste  to  the  bower  where  roses  are 

spread, 
For  there  is  prepared  thy  nuptial  bed. 
Oh  haste  —  hark  !  hark  !  —  they  're  gone. 


Chorus  of  Spirits. 

Stay  ye  days  of  contentment  and  joy, 
Whilst  love  every  care  is  erasing, 

Stay  ye  pleasures  that  never  can  cloy, 
And  ye  spirits   that  can    never  cease 
pleasing. 

And  if  any  soft  passion  be  near, 

Which    mortals,     frail     mortals,    can 
know, 

Let  love  shed  on  the  bosom  a  tear, 
And  dissolve  the  chill  ice-drop  of  woe. 


Symphony. 


Francis. 


"  Soft,  my  dearest  angel  stay, 
Oh  !   you  suck  my  soul  away; 
Suck  on,  suck  on,  I  glow,  I  glow! 
Tides  of  maddening  passion  roll, 
And  streams  of   rapture  drown  my  soul. 
Now  give  me  one  more  billing  kiss, 
Let  your  lips  now  repeat  the  bliss, 
Endless  kisses  steal  my  breath, 
No  life  can  equal  such  a  death." 

Charlotte. 

Oh  !  yes  I  will  kiss  thine  eyes  so  fair, 

And  I  will  clasp  thy  form; 
Serene  is  the  breath  of  the  balmy  air, 

But    I    think,    love,    thou    feelest    me 
warm. 
And  I  will  recline  on  thy  marble  neck 

Till  I  mingle  into  thee. 
And  I  will  kiss  the  rose  on  thy  cheek, 

And  thou  shalt  give  kisses  to  me. 
For  here  is  no  morn  to  flout  our  delight, 

Oh  !  dost  thou  not  joy  at  this? 
And  here  we  may  lie  an  endless  night, 

A  long,  long  night  of  bliss." 

Spirits  !  when  raptures  move, 

Say  what  it  is  to  love, 

When  passion's  tear  stands  on  the  cheek, 

When  bursts  the  unconscious  sigh; 
And  the  tremulous  lips  dare  not  speak 

What  is  told  by  the  soul-felt  eye. 
But  what  is  sweeter  to  revenge's  ear 
Than    the    fell    tyrant's    last    expiring 
yell? 
Yes !    than   love's    sweetest  blisses  't  is 
more  dear 
To  drink   the   floatings  of  a   despot's 
knell. 
I  wake  —  't  is  done  —  't  is  o'er. 


DESPAIR. 

And  canst  thou  mock  mine  agony,  thus 

calm 
In  cloudless  radiance,  Queen  of  silver 

night? 
Can  you,  ye  flowerets,  spread  your  per' 

fumed  balm 


664 


JUVENILIA. 


Mid  pearly  gems  of  dew  that  shine  so 
bright? 
And  you  wild  winds,  thus  can  you   sleep 
so  still 
Whilst    throbs    the    tempest    of    my 
breast  so  high? 
Can  the  fierce  night-fiends  rest  on  yonder 
hill, 
And,  in  the  eternal   mansions  of  the 
sky, 
Can  the  directors  of  the  storm  in  power- 
less silence  lie? 

Hark!    I    hear    music    on    the    zephyr's 
wing, 
Louder  it    floats    along    the    unruffled 
sky; 
Some  fairy  sure  has  touched  the  viewless 
string  — 
Now  faint  in  distant  air  the  murmurs 
die, 
Awhile  it  stills  the  tide  of  agony. 

Now  —  now   it   loftier   swells  —  again 
stern  woe 
Arises  with  the  awakening  melody. 
Again  fierce  torments,  such  as  demons 
know, 
In   bitterer,    feller    tide,    on    this    torn 
bosom  flow. 

Arise  ye  sightless  spirits  of  the  storm, 
Ye    unseen    minstrels    of    the    aerial 
song, 
Pour  the   fierce  tide   around   this   lonely 
form, 
And  roll  the  tempest's  wildest   swell 
along. 
Dart  the  red  lightning,  wing  the   forked 
flash, 
Pour   from   thy  cloud-formed  hills  the 
thunder's  roar; 
Arouse   the  whirlwind — and  let    ocean 
dash 
In    fiercest     tumult     on     the     rocking 
shore, 
Destroy  this  life  or  let  earth's  fabric  be 
no  more. 

Yes !    every    tie    that    links  me   here   is 

dead ; 

Mysterious  fate  thy  mandate  I  obey, 

Since   hope   and   peace,  and  joy,  for  aye 

are  fled, 

I  come,  terrific  power,  I  come  away, 


Then  o'er  this  ruined  soul  let  spirits   of 
hell, 
In  triumph,  laughing  wildly,  mock  its 
pain; 
And  tho'  with  direst  pangs  mine  heart 
strings  swell, 
I  '11  echo  back  their  deadly  yells  again, 
Cursing  the  power  that  ne'er  made  aught 
in  vain. 

FRAGMENT. 

Yes!    all   is  past  —  swift    time  has  fled 
away, 
Yet  its  swell  pauses  on  my  sickening 
mind; 
How  long  will  horror  nerve   this  frame 
of  clay? 
I   'm   dead,  and  lingers  yet    my  soul 
behind. 
Oh !   powerful    fate,   revoke    thy  deadly 
spell, 
And  yet  that  may  not  ever,  ever  be, 
Heaven  will  not  smile  upon  the  work  of 
hell; 
Ah  !  no,  for  heaven  cannot  smile  on 
me; 
Fate,   envious  fate,  has  sealed  my  way- 
ward destiny. 

I  sought  the  cold  brink  of  the  midnight 
surge, 
I  sighed  beneath  its  wave  to  hide  my 
woes, 
The  rising  tempest  sung  a  funeral  dirge, 
And  on  the  blast  a  frightful  yell  arose. 
Wild  flew  the  meteors  o'er  the  maddened 
main, 
Wilder    did   grief    athwart   my  bosom 
glare; 
Stilled  was  the  unearthly  howling,  and  a 
strain, 
Swelled  mid  the  tumult  of  the  battling 
air, 
'T  was  like  a  spirit's  song,  but  yet   more 
soft  and  fair. 

I  met  a  maniac;  like  he  was  to  me, 
I  said—  "  Poor  victim  wherefore  dost 
thou  roam? 
And  canst  thou  not  contend  with  agony, 
That  thus  at  midnight   thou   dost  quit 
thine  home?  " 


THE  SPECTRAL   MORS  EM  AX. 


CCs 


"  Ah  there  she  sleeps:  cold  is  her  blood- 
less form, 
And    I    will    go    to   slumber    in    her 
grave ; 

Anil    then   our  ghosts,    whilst  raves  the 
maddened  storm, 
Will     sweep    at    midnight    o'er    the 
wildered  wave; 

Wilt  thou  our  lowly  beds  with  tears   of 
pity  lave?  " 

"Ah!    no,    I    cannot    shed    the   pitying 
tear, 
This  breast  is  cold,  this  heart  can  feel 
no  more; 
Rut  I  can  rest  me  on  thy  chilling  bier, 
Can  shriek  in  horror  to  the  tempest's 
roar." 


THE   SPECTRAL   HORSEMAN. 

What  was  the  shriek  that  struck  fancy's 

ear 
As   it  sate  on   the  ruins  of  time  that  is 

past? 
Hark  !  it  floats  on  the  fitful  blast  of  the 

wind, 
And  breathes  to  the  pale  moon  a  funeral 

sigh. 
It  is  the  Benshic's  moan  on  the  storm, 
Or   a  shivering   fiend   that    thirsting    for 

sin, 
Seeks     murder    and     guilt    when    virtue 

sleeps, 
Winged  with  the  power  of  some  ruthless 

king, 
And  sweeps  o'er  the  breast  of  the  pros- 
trate plain. 
It  was  not  a  fiend  from  the  regions  of 

hell 
That  poured   its  low  moan  on   the   still- 
ness of  night : 
It  was  not  a  ghost  of  the  guilty  dead, 
Nor    a    yelling    vampire    reeking    with 

gore : 
But    aye    at    the    close   of    seven   years' 

end, 
That  voice  is  mixt  with  the  swell  of  the 

storm, 
And    aye    at    the   close  of    seven  years' 

end, 


A  shapeless   shadow  that   sleeps   on   the 

hill 
Awakens  and    floats  on   the   mist  of  the 

heath. 
It  is  not  the  shade  of  a  murdered  man, 
Who  has  rusht  uncalled  to  the  throne  of 

his  God, 
j  And  howls  in  the  pause  of  the  eddying 

storm. 
This    voice    is    low,    cold,    hollow,    and 

chill, 
'T  is  not  heard  by  the  ear,  but  is  felt  in 

the  soul. 
'T  is  more   frightful   far  than   the  death- 
demon's  scream, 
Or    the    laughter    of    fiends    when    they 

howl  o'er  the  corpse 
!   Of  a  man  who  has  sold  his  soul  to  hell. 
|    It  tells  the  approach  of  a  mystic  form, 
j   A    white     courser     bears     the     shadowy 

sprite; 
More  thin  they  are  than  the  mists  of  the 

mountain, 
When  the  clear  moonlight  sleeps  on  the 

waveless  lake. 
More  pale  his  cheek   than   the   snows  of 

Nithona, 
When  winter  rides  on  the  northern  blast, 
And   howls  in   the   midst  of  the   leafless 

wood. 
Vet  when  the  fierce  swell  of  the  tempest 

is  raving, 
j   And   the  whirlwinds   howl  in   the  caves 

of   Inisfallen, 
Still   secure   mid  the  wildest  war  of  the 

sky, 
The  phantom  courser  scours  the  waste, 
And    his   rider   howls    in    the    thunder's 

roar. 
O'er    him    the    fierce   bolts  of  avenging 

heaven 
i   Pause,  as  in  fear,  to  strike  his  head. 
The  meteors  of  midnight  recoil  from  his 

figure, 
\  Vet  the  wildered  peasant  that  oft  passes 

by, 
With    wonder    beholds     the     blue     flash 

thro'  his  form : 
;   And  his  voice,  tho'  faint  as  the  sighs  of 

the  dead, 
The  startled  passenger  shudders  to  hear, 
I  More  distinct  than  the  thunder's  wildest 
I  roar. 


666 


JUVENILIA. 


Then  does   the  dragon,  who  chained  in 

the   caverns 
To    eternity,    curses    the    champion    of 

Erin, 
Moan  and  yell  loud  at  the  lone  hour  of 

midnight, 
And   twine   his  vast   wreaths  round  the 

forms  of  the  demons; 
Then  in  agony  roll  his  death-swimming 

eyeballs, 
Though  wildered  by  death,  yet  never  to 

die  ! 
Then  he  shakes  from  his  skeleton  folds 

the  nightmares, 
Who,     shrieking    in     agony,     seek    the 

couch 
Of    some     fevered    wretch    who    courts 

sleep   in  vain; 
Then  the  tombless  ghosts   of  the  guilty 

dead 
In  horror  pause  on  the  fitful  gale. 
They  float   on  the  swell  of  the  eddying 

tempest, 
And    scared    seek    the    caves    of    gigan- 
tic ..   . 
Where   their  thin   forms  pour  unearthly 

sounds 
On   the  blast  that  sweeps  the  breast  of 

the  lake, 
And  mingles  its  swell   with  the    moon- 
light air. 


MELODY   TO   A   SCENE  OF 
FORMER   TIMES. 

Art  thou  indeed  for  ever  gone, 

For  ever,  ever,  lost  to  me? 
Must  this  poor  bosom  beat  alone, 

Or  beat  at  all,  if  not  for  thee? 
Ah  !  why  was  love  to  mortals  given, 
To  lift  them  to  the  height  of  heaven, 
Or  dash  them  to  the  depths  of  hell? 

Yet  I  do  not  reproach  thee,  dear  ! 
Ah  !   no,  the  agonies  that  swell 

This    panting   breast,   this    frenzied 
brain 

Might     wake     my  • 's     slumb'ring 

tear. 

Oh  !  heaven  is  witness  I  did  love, 
And  heaven  does  know  I  love  thee  still, 
Does  know  the   fruitless  sickening  thrill, 


When  reason's  judgment  vainly  strove 
To  blot  thee  from  my  memory; 
But  which  might  never,  never  be. 
Oh  !   I  appeal  to  that  blest  day 
When  passion's  wildest  ecstasy 
Was  coldness  to  the  joys  I  knew, 
When  every  sorrow  sunk  away. 
Oh  !   I  had  never  liv'd  before, 
But  now  those  blisses  are  no  more. 
And  now  I  cease  to  live  again, 
I  do  not  blame  thee,  love;    ah  no  ! 
The  breast  that  feels  this  anguished  woe 
Throbs  for  thy  happiness  alone. 
Two  years  of  speechless  bliss  are  gone, 
I  thank  thee  dearest  for  the  dream. 
'T   is    night  —  what    faint    and    distant 

scream 
Comes  on  the  wild  and  fitful  blast? 
It  moans  for  pleasures  that  are  past, 
It  moans  for  clays  that  are  gone  by. 
Oh  !   lagging  hours  how  slow  you  fly  ! 

I  see  a  dark  and  lengthened  vale, 
The  black  view  closes  with  the  tomb; 
But  darker  is  the  lowering  gloom 

That  shades  the  intervening  dale. 
In  visioned  slumber  for  awhile 
I  seem  again  to  share  thy  smile, 
I  seem  to  hang  upon  thy  tone. 

Again  you  say,  "  Confide  in  me, 
For  I  am  thine,  and  thine  alone, 

And  thine  must  ever,  ever  be." 
But  oh  !   awakening  still  anew, 
Athwart  my  enanguisht  senses  flew 

A  fiercer,  deadlier  agony  ! 


[End  of  Posthumous  Fragments  of  Margaret 
Nicholson.] 


STANZA   FROM   A  TRANSLA- 
TION  OF  THE   MARSEIL- 
LAISE   HYMN. 

Tremble  Kings  despised  of  man 

Ye  traitors  to  your  Country 
Tremble  !     Your  parricidal  plan 

At  length  shall  meet  its  destiny  .   . 
We  all  are  soldiers  fit  to  fight 
But  if  we  sink  in  glory's  night 
Our  mother  Earth  will  give  ye  new 
The  brilliant  pathway  to  pursue 
Which  leads  to  Death  or  Victory.  . 


liJGO TR Y 'S    VICTIM. 


667 


Spreads    the     influence    of     soul-chilling 

BIGOTRY'S   VICTIM. 

terror   around, 

And  lowers  on   the  corpses,  that  rot  on 

1. 

the   ground. 

Dares  the  lama,  most  fleet  of  the  sons 

of  the  wind, 

IV. 

The    lion    to    rouse    from    his   skull- 

They  came  to  the  fountain  to  draw  from 

covered  lair? 

its  stream, 

When  the  tiger  approaches  can  the  fast- 

Waves    too     pure,    too     celestial,    for 

fleeting  hind 

mortals    to    see ; 

Repose  trust  in  his  footsteps  of  air? 

They    bathed    for   awhile    in    its    silvery 

No  !     Abandoned  he  sinks  in  a  trance  of 

beam, 

despair, 

Then  perisht,  and  perisht  like  me. 

The  monster  transfixes  his  prey, 

For  in  vain  from  the  grasp  of  the  Bigot 

On   the   sand  flows  his  life-blood 

I  flee; 

away ; 

The    most   tenderly  loved  of    my 

Whilst   India's  rocks    to  his   death-yells 

soul 

reply, 

Are  slaves  to  his  hated  control. 

Protracting  the  horrible  harmony. 

He   pursues   me,  he   blasts   me!    'T  is  in 

vain    that    I    fly: 

11. 

What    remains,  but    to   curse    him, — to 

curse    him    and   die? 

Yet  the  fowl  of  the  desert,  when  danger 

encroaches, 

Dares  fearless  to  perish  defending  her 

ON    AX    ICICLE   I'll  AT   CLUNG 

brood, 

TO   THE   GRASS    OF   A 

Tho;  the  fiercest  of  cloud-piercing  tyrants 

GRAVE. 

approaches, 

Thirsting  —  ay,  thirsting  for  blood; 

1. 

And  demands,  like  mankind,  his  brother 

for  food; 

On  !   take  the  pure  gem  to  where  south- 

Yet   more    lenient,    more    gentle 

erly  breezes, 

than  they; 

Wraft  repose  to  some  bosom  as  faithful 

For  hunger,  not  glory,  the  prey 

as  fair, 

Must    perish.      Revenge   does    not    howl 

In  which  the  warm  current  of  love  never 

in  the  dead. 

freezes, 

Nor    ambition     with     fame     crown     the 

As  it  rises  unmingled  with  selfishness 

murderer's  head. 

there, 

Which,  untainted  by  pride,  unpolluted 

in. 

by  care, 

Might    dissolve    the   dim   icedrop,   might 

Tho'  weak,  as  the  lama,  that  bounds  on 

bid    it   arise, 

the  mountains, 

Too  pure  for  these  regions,  to  gleam  in 

And  endued  not  with  fast-fleeting  foot- 

the skies. 

steps  of  air, 

Yet,  yet  will  I  draw  from  the  purest   of 

II. 

fountains, 

Tho'  a  fiercer  than  tiger  is  there. 

Or  where  the  stern  warrior,  his  country 

Tho'  more  dreadful   than   death,  it  scat- 

defending, 

ters  despair, 

Dares  fearless   the    dark-rolling  battle 

Tho'  its  shadow  eclipses  the  day, 

to  pour, 

And  the  darkness  of  deepest  dis- 

Or o'er  the  fell  corpse  of  a  dread  tyrant 

may 

bending, 

668 


JUVENILIA. 


Where  patriotism  red  with  his   guilt- 
reeking  gore 
Plants    liberty's    flag     on     the    slave- 
peopled  shore, 
With  victory's  cry,  with  the  shout  of  the 

free, 
Let  it  fly,  taintless  spirit,  to  mingle  with 
thee. 


For   I   found   the   pure   gem,    when   the 
daybeam  returning, 
Ineffectual  gleams  on  the  snow-covered 
plain, 
When  to  others  the  wisht-for  arrival  of 
morning 
Brings  relief  to  long  visions  of  soul- 
racking  pain; 
But  regret  is  an  insult — to   grieve   is 
in  vain : 
And  why  should  we  grieve   that  a  spirit 

so  fair 
Seeks  Heaven  to  mix  with  its  own  kin- 
dred there? 


But   still   't  was  some  spirit  of  kindness 
descending 
To   share   in   the   load   of    mortality's 
woe, 
Who     over     the     lowly-built     sepulchre 
bending 
Bade  sympathy's  tenderest  teardrop  to 

flow. 
Not   for   thee,  soft    compassion,   celes- 
tials did  know, 
But  if  angels  can  weep,  sure   man   may 

repine, 
May  weep  in  mute  grief  o'er   thy  low- 
laid  shrine. 


And   did   I   then    say,    for    the    altar   of 
glory, 
That  the  earliest,  the  loveliest  of  flow- 
ers I  'd  entwine, 

Tho'  with  millions  of  blood-reeking  vie-   I    Spanglet  of  light  on  evening's  shadowy 
tims  't  was  gory,  veil, 


Oh  !  Fame,  all  thy  glories  I'd  yield  for  a 

tear 
To   shed    on    the    grave    of    a   heart   so 

sincere. 

LOVE. 

Why  is  it  said  thou  canst  not  live 

In  a  youthful  breast  and  fair, 
Since  thou  eternal  life  canst  give, 

Canst  bloom  for  ever  there? 
Since  withering  pain  no  power  possest, 

Nor  age,  to  blanch  thy  vermeil  hue, 
Nor  time's  dread  victor,  death,  confest, 

Tho'  bathed  with  his  poison  dew, 
Still  thou  retain'st  unchanging  bloom, 
Fixt  tranquil,  even  in  the  tomb. 
And  oh  !   when  on  the  blest  reviving 

The  day-star  dawns  of  love, 
Each  energy  of  soul  surviving 

More  vivid,  soars  above, 
Hast  thou  ne'er  felt  a  rapturous  thrill, 

Like  June's  warm  breath,  athwart  thee 

fly,. 

O'er  each  idea  then  to  steal, 

When  other  passions  die? 
Felt  it  in  some  wild  noonday  dream, 
When  sitting  by  the  lonely  stream, 
Where  Silence  says,  "  Mine  is  the  dell; ' 

And  not  a  murmur  from  the  plain, 
And  not  an  echo  from  the  fell, 

Disputes  her  silent  reign. 

ON   A    FETE    AT    CARLTON 
HOUSE:     FRAGMENT. 

By  the  mossy  brink, 
With  me  the  Prince  shall  sit  and  think; 
Shall  muse  in  visioncd  Regency, 
Rapt     in     bright     dreams     of     dawning 
Royalty. 

TO   A   STAR. 

Sweet    star,  which    gleaming    o'er    the 

darksome  scene 
Thro'   fleecy   clouds   of     silvery  radiance 

fiiest, 


Tho'  the  tears  of  the  widow  polluted 
its  shrine, 

Tho'  around  it  the  orphans,  the  father- 
less pine  ? 


Which  shrouds   the    day-beam  from   the 

waveless  lake, 
Lighting  the  hour  of  sacred  love;   more 

sweet 


TO   MARY,    WHO  DIED  IN   THIS   OPINION. 


669 


Than  the  expiring  morn-star's  paly  fires. 
Sweet     star  !      When     wearied      Nature 

sinks    to    sleep, 
Ami  all  is  husht,  — all,  save  the  voice  of 

Love, 
Whose    broken    murmurings     swell     the 

balmy  blast 
Of  soft  Favonius,  which  at  intervals 
Sighs   in   the    ear    of   stillness,  art    thou 

aught  but 
Lulling  the  slaves  of  interest  to  repose 
With   that    mild,    pitying    gaze!     Oh,    I 

would  look 
In    thy    dear    beam    till    every   bond   of 

sense 
l>ecame  enamoured  — 


TO    MARY,    WHO   DIED   IN    THIS 
OPINION. 


Maiden,  quench  the  glare  of  sorrow 
Struggling  in  thine  haggard  eye: 

Firmness  dare  to  borrow 
From  the  wreck  of  destiny; 

For  the  ray  morn's  bloom  revealing 

Can  never  boast  so  bright  an  hue 
As  that  which  mocks  concealing, 

And  sheds  its  loveliest  light  on  vou. 


Yet  is  the  tie  departed 
Which  bound  thy  lovely  soul  to  bliss? 

bias  it  left  thee  broken-hearted 
In  a  world  so  cold  as  this  ! 

Yet,  tho',  fainting  fair  one, 
Sorrow's  self  thy  cup  has  given, 

Dream  thou'lt  meet  thy  dear  one, 
Never  more  to  part,  in  heaven. 


Existence  would  I  barter 
For  a  dream  so  dear  as  thine, 
And  smile  to  die  a  martyr 
On  affection's  bloodless  shrine. 

Nor  would  I  change  for  pleasure 
That  withered  hand  and  ashy  cheek, 

If   my  heart  enshrined  a  treasure 
Such  as  forces  thine  to  break. 


A  TALE   OF   SOCIETY   AS   IT    IS: 
FROM    FACTS,    181 1. 


She  was  an  aged  woman;   and  the  years 
Which  she  had  numbered  on  her  toil- 
some way 
Had    bowed    her    natural    powers    to 

decay. 
She  was  an  aged  woman;    yet  the  ray 
Which  faintly  glimmered  thro'  her  start- 
ing tears, 
Prest  into  light  by  silent  misery, 
Hath  soul's  imperishable  energy. 

She  was  a  cripple,  and  incapable 
To  add  one  mite  to  gold-fed  luxury: 
And    therefore  did   her  spirit   dimly 

feel 
That  poverty,  the  crime  of  tainting 
stain, 
Would  merge  her  in  its  depths,  never  to 
rise  again. 


One  only  son's  love  had  supported  her. 
She    long    had    struggled    with     in- 
firmity, 
Lingering  to  human  life-scenes;    for 

to  die, 
When  fate  has  spared  to  rend  some 
mental  tie, 
Would  many  wish,  and  surely  fewer 

dare. 
But,   when   the    tyrant's    bloodhounds 

forced  the  child 
For  his  cursed  power  unhallowed  arms 
to  wield  — 
Bend  to  another's  will  —  become  a 
thing 
More    senseless    than    the    sword    of 
battlefield  — 
Then    did    she    feel    keen    sorrow's 
keenest  sting; 
And  many    years   had  past  ere  comfort 
they  would  bring. 


For  seven  years  did  this  poor  woman 
live 
In  unparticipated  solitude. 


670 


JUVENILIA. 


Thou  mightst  have   seen  her  in  the 

forest  rude 
Picking   the   scattered    remnants   of 
its  wood. 
If    human,    thou    mightst    then    have 

learned  to  grieve. 
The  gleanings  of  precarious  charity 
Her    scantiness    of    food    did    scarce 
supply. 
The  proofs  of  an  unspeaking  sorrow 
dwelt 
Within  her  ghastly  hollowness  of  eye: 
Each  arrow  of  the  season's  change 
she  felt. 
Yet  still  she  groans,  ere  yet  her   race 
were  run, 
One  only  hope :   it  was  —  once  more  to 
see  her  son. 


It  was  an  eve  of  June,  when  every  star 
Spoke  peace  from  heaven  to  those   j 

on  earth  that  live. 
She    rested   on  the    moor.      'T  was  ] 

such  an  eve 
When  first  her  soul  began  indeed  to   i 
grieve: 
Then  he  was  here ;    now  he  is  very  far. 
The  sweetness  of  the  balmy  evening 
A  sorrow  o'er  her  aged  soul  did  fling, 
Yet  not  devoid  of  rapture's  mingled 
tear : 
A  balm  was  in  the  poison  of  the  sting. 

This  aged  sufferer  for  many  a  year 
Had    never    felt    such    comfort.     She 
supprest 
A.  sigh  —  and  turning  round,  claspt  Wil- 
liam to  her  breast ! 


And,    tho'    his  form    was    wasted   by 
the  woe 
Which  tyrants  on  their  victims  love 

to  wreak, 
Tho'  his  sunk  eyeballs  and  his  faded 

cheek 
Of  slavery's  violence  and  scorn  did 
speak, 
Yet    did    the    aged    woman's   bosom 

glow. 
The  vital  fire  seemed  reillumed  within 
By  this  sweet  unexpected  welcoming. 


O,     consummation    of    the    fondest 
hope 
That  ever    soared  on   fancy's   wildest 
wing ! 
Oh,     tenderness    that    found'st    so 
sweet  a  scope  ! 
Prince    who    dost  pride    thee    on   thy 
mighty  sway, 
When  thou  canst   feel  such   love,  thou 
shalt  be  great  as  they ! 


VI. 

Her   son,    compelled,    the    country's 
foes  had  fought, 
Had  bled   in   battle;    and  the  stern 

control 
Which  ruled  his  sinews  and  coerced 

his  soul 
Utterly    poisoned    life's    unmingled 
bowl, 
And  unsubduable  evils  on  him  brought. 
He  was  the  shadow  of  the  lusty  child 
Who,  when  the  time  of  summer  season 
smiled, 
Did  earn  for  her  a  meal  of  honesty, 
And    with    affectionate    discourse    be- 
guiled 
The  keen  attacks  of  pain  and  pov- 
erty; 
Till   Power,  as   envying  her  this  only 

joy, 

From    her    maternal    bosom    tore     the 
unhappy  boy. 


And    now    cold    charity's    unwelcome 
dole 
Was  insufficient  to  support  the  pair; 
And  they  would  perish  rathor  than 

would  bear 
The    law's    stern    slavery,    and    the 
insolent  stare 
With    which    law    loves    to    rend    the 

poor   man's  soul  — 
The    bitter     scorn,    the    spirit-sinking 

noise 
Of     heartless     mirth     which     women, 
men,  and  boys, 
Wake  in  this  scene  of  legal  misery. 


TO   HARRIET:   A    FRAGMENT 


671 


TO  THE   REPUBLICANS   OF 
NORTH    AMERICA. 


Brothers  !  between  you  and  me 
Whirlwinds  sweep  and  billows  roar: 

Yet  in  spirit  oft  I  see 

On  thy  wild  and  winding  shore 

Freedom's  bloodless  banners  wave,  — 

Feel  the  pulses  of  the  brave 

Unextinguisht  in  the  grave,  — 

See  them  drencht  in  sacred  gore,  — 

Catch  the  warrior's  gasping  breath 

Murmuring  "  Liberty  or  death  !  " 


Shout  aloud  !     Let  every  slave, 

Crouching  at  Corruption's  throne, 
Start  into  a  man,  and  brave 

Racks  and  chains  without  a  groan; 
And  the  castle's  heartless  glow, 
And  the  hovel's  vice  and  woe, 
Fade  like  gaudy  flowers  that  blow  — 

Weeds  that  peep,  and  then  are  gone: 
Whilst,  from  misery's  ashes  risen, 
Love  shall  burst  the  captive's  prison. 


Cotopaxi !  bid  the  sound 

Thro'  thy  sister  mountains  ring, 
Till  each  valley  smile  around 
At  the  blissful  welcoming! 
And  O  thou  stern  Ocean-deep, 
Thou  whose  foamy  billows  sweep 
Shores  where  thousands  wake  to  weep 

Whilst  they  curse  a  villain  king, 
On  the  winds  that  fan  thy  breast 
Bear  thou  news  of  Freedom's  rest ! 


Can  the  day-star  dawn  of  love, 

Where  the  flag  of  war  unfurled 
Floats  with  crimson  stain  above 
The  fabric  of   a  ruined  world? 
Never  but  to  vengeance  driven 
When  the  patriot's  spirit  shriven 
Seeks  in  death  its  native  heaven ! 

There,  to  desolation  hurled, 
Widowed  love  may  watch  thy  bier, 
Balm  thee  with  its  dying  tear. 


TO    IRELAND. 

Bear  witness,  Erin  !  when  thine  injured 

isle 
Sees   summer    on    its    verdant    pastures 

smile, 
Its  cornfields  waving   in   the  winds  that 

sweep 
The  billowy  surface  of  thy  circling  deep. 
Thou  tree  whose  shadow  o'er  the  Atlan- 
tic gave 
Peace,  wealth,  and  beauty,  to  its  friendly 

wave, 

its  blossoms  fade, 
And  blighted  are  the  leaves  that  cast  its 

shade ; 
Whilst  the  cold  hand   gathers  its  scanty 

fruit, 
Whose   chillness  struck  a  canker  to  its 

root. 

[See  page  676  for  additional  stanza.] 


TO    HARRIET  :  A   FRAGMENT. 

O  THOU 

Whose    dear    love    gleamed    upon    the 

gloomy  path 
Which    this   lone   spirit   travelled,   drear 

and  cold 
Put  swiftly  leading  to  those  awful  limits 
Which  mark  the  bounds  of  time,  and  of 

the  space 
Wrhen  time  shall  be  no  more,  —  wilt  thou 

not  turn 
Those  spirit-beaming  eyes,  and  look  on 

me, 
Until  I  be  assured  that  earth  is  heaven, 
And  heaven  is  earth? 


THE   DEVIL'S   WALK. 

A    BALLAD. 


Once,  early  in  the  morning, 

Beelzebub  arose, 
With  care  his  sweet  person  adorning, 

He  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes. 


672 


JUVENILIA. 


He  drew  on  a  boot  to  hide  his  hoof, 

He  drew  on  a  glove  to  hide  his  claw, 
His  horns  were    concealed    by    a    bras- 

chapeau, 
And  the  Devil  went  forth  as  natty  a  beau, 
As  Bond  Street  ever  saw. 


in. 


He  sate  him  down,  in  London  town, 

Before  earth's  morning  ray, 
With  a  favorite  imp  he  began  to  chat, 
On  religion,  and  scandal,  this  and  that, 
Until  the  dawn  of  day. 


And  then  to  St.  James's  Court  he  went, 
And  St.  Paul's  Church  he  took  on  his 
way, 

He  was  mighty  thick  with  every  Saint, 
Tho'  they  were  formal  and  he  was  gay. 


The  Devil  was  an  agriculturist, 

And  as  bad  weeds  quickly  grow, 

In  looking  over  his  farm,  I  wist 

He  would  n't  find  cause  for  woe. 


He  peept  in  each  hole,  to  each  chamber 
stole, 
His  promising  live-stock  to  view; 
Grinning  applause,  he  just  showed  them 

his  claws, 
And  they  shrunk  with  affright  from   his 
ugly  sight, 
Whose  work  they  delighted  to  do. 


Satan  poked  his   red  nose  into  crannies 
so  small, 
One  would  think  that  the  innocents 
fair, 
Poor  lambkins !   were  just  doing  nothing 

at  all, 
But    settling    some    dress    or    arranging 
some    ball, 
But  the  Devil  saw  deeper  there. 


A  Priest,  at  whose  elbow  the  Devil  dur- 
ing prayer, 
Sate  familiarly,  side  by  side, 
Declared,  that  if  the  tempter  were  there, 

His  presence  he  would  not  abide. 
Ah,  ha  !  thought  Old  Nick,  that  's  a  very 

stale  trick, 
For  without  the  Devil,  O  favorite  of  evil, 
In  your  carriage  you  would  not  ride. 


Satan  next  saw  a  brainless  King, 

Whose  house  was  as  hot  as  his  own, 
Many  imps  in  attendance  were  there  on 

the  wing, 
They  flapt  the  pennon  and  twisted  the 
sting. 
Close  by  the  very  Throne. 


Ah,  ha !    thought  Satan,    the    pasture  is 
good, 
My    Cattle  will    here    thrive    better 
than  others, 
They  dine  on  news  of  human  blood, 
They  sup  on  the  groans  of  the  dying 

and  dead, 
And  supperless  never  will  go  to  bed; 
Which  will  make  them   fat   as  their 
brothers. 


Fat  as  the  fiends  that  feed  on  blood, 
Fresh    and    warm  from  the    fields    of 
Spain, 
Where  ruin  ploughs  her  gory  way, 
When  the  shoots  of  earth  are  nipt  in  the 
bud, 
Where  Hell  is  the  Victor's  prey, 
Its  glory  the  meed  of  the  slain. 


Fat  —  as  the  death-birds  on  Erin's  shore, 

That  glutted  themselves  in  her  dearest 

gore, 

And  flitted  round  Castlereagh, 

When  they  snatcht  the   Patriot's  heart, 

that  his  grasp 


THE    DEVIL'S    WALK 


(>n 


lad  torn  from  its  widow's  maniac  clasp, 
And  fled  at  the  dawn  of  day. 


Fat — as  the  reptiles  of  the  tomb, 

That  riot  in  corruption's  spoil, 
That  fret  their  little  hour  in  gloom, 
And  creep,  and  live  the  while. 


Fat  as  that  Prince's  maudlin  brain, 
Which  addled  by  some  gilded  toy, 

Tired,  gives  his  sweetmeat,  and  again 
Cries  for  it,  like  a  humored  boy. 


For  he  is  fat,  his  waistcoat  gay, 
When  strained  upon  a  levee  day, 

Scarce     meets     across     his      princely 
paunch, 
And  pantaloons  are  like  half  moons 
Upon  each  brawny  haunch. 


How  vast  his  stock  of  calf !   when  plenty 
Had  filled  his  empty  head  and  heart, 

Enough  to  satiate  foplings  twenty, 

Could  make  his  pantaloon  seams  start. 


The  Devil,  (who  sometimes  is  called 
nature,) 

For  men  of  power  provides  thus  well, 
\Vhilst  every  change  and  every  feature, 

Their  great  original  can  tell. 


Satan  saw  a  lawyer  a  viper  slay, 

That  crawled  up  the  leg  of  his  table. 

It  reminded  him  most  marvellously, 
Of  the  story  of  Cain  and  Abel. 


The  wealthy  yeoman,  as  he  wanders, 

His  fertile  fields  among, 
And  on  his  thriving  cattle  ponders, 

Counts    his    sure    gains,   and    hums    a 
song; 


Thus  did  the  Devil,  thro'  earth  walking, 
Hum  low  a  hellish  song. 


For  they  thrive  well,  whose  garb  of  gore, 

Is  Satan's  choicest  livery, 
And  they  thrive  well,  who  from  the  poor, 

Have  snatcht  the  bread  of  penury, 
And  heap  the  houseless  wanderer's  store, 

On  the  rank  pile  of   luxury. 


The  Bishops  thrive,  tho'  they  are  big, 
The  Lawyers  thrive,  tho'  they  are  thin: 

For  every  gown,  and  every  wig, 

Hides  the  safe  thrift  of   Hell  within. 


XXII. 

Thus  pigs  were  never  counted  clean, 
Altho*  they  dine  on  finest  corn; 

And  cormorants  are  sin-like  lean, 
Altho'  they  eat  from  night  to  morn. 


Oh  !  why  is  the   Father   of   Hell   iii   such 
glee, 
As  he  grins  from  ear  to  ear? 
Why  does  he  doff   his  clothes  joyfully, 
As  he  skips,  and  prances,  and  flaps  his 

wing, 
As  he  sidles,  leers,  and  twirls  his  sting, 
And  dares,  as  he  is,  to  appear? 

XXIV. 

A  statesman  past  —  alone  to  him, 

The   Devil    dare   his  whole   shape   un- 
cover, 

To  show  each  feature,  every  limb, 
Secure  of  an  unchanging  lover. 


At  this  known  sign,  a  welcome  sight, 
The    watchful    demons     sought     their 
King, 

And  every  fiend  of  the  Stygian  night, 
Was  in  an  instant  on  the  wing. 


674 


JUVENILIA. 


Pale  Loyalty,  his  guilt-steeled  brow, 
With  wreaths  of  gory  laurel  crowned; 

The    hell-hounds,    Murder,    Want,    and 
Woe, 
For  ever  hungering  flockt  around; 

From  Spain  had  Satan  sought  their  food, 

'T  was  human  woe  and  human  blood  ! 


Hark  the  earthquake's  crash  I  hear, 
Kings  turn  pale  and  Conquerors  start, 

Ruffians  tremble  in  their  fear, 
For  their  Satan  doth  depart. 


This  day  fiends  give  to  revelry, 
To  celebrate  their  King's  return, 

And  with  delight  its  sire  to  see, 
Hell's  adamantine  limits  burn. 

XXIX. 

But  were  the  Devil's  sight  as  keen 
As  Reason's  penetrating  eye, 

His  sulphurous  Majesty  I  ween, 
Would  find  but  little  cause  for  joy. 

XXX. 

For  the  sons  of  Reason  see, 

That  ere  fate  consume  the  Pole, 

The  false  Tyrant's  cheek  shall  be, 
Bloodless  as  his  coward  soul. 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  MY  HEART.1 
I. 

Shall  we  roam,  my  love, 
To  the  twilight  grove, 


1  Printed  as  Shelley's  by  Medwin ;  reprinted 
by  Mrs.  Shelley,  first  edition  of  1839,  but  subse- 
quently withdrawn  as  of  doubtful  genuineness. — 
Ed. 


When  the  moon  is  rising  bright; 

Oh,  I  '11  whisper  there, 

In  the  cool  night-air, 
What  I  dare  not  in  broad  daylight ! 


I  '11  tell  thee  a  part 

Of  the  thoughts  that  start 

To  being  when  thou  art  nigh; 

And  thy  beauty,  more  bright 
Than  the  stars'  soft  light, 

Shall  seem  as  a  weft  from  the  sky. 


When  the  pale  moonbeam 

On  tower  and  stream 
Sheds  a  flood  of  silver  sheen, 

How  I  love  to  gaze 

As  the  cold  ray  strays 
O'er    thy    face,    my    heart's    throned 
queen  ! 


Wilt  thou  roam  with  me 

To  the  restless  sea, 
And  linger  upon  the  steep, 

And  list  to  the  flow 

Of  the  waves  below 
How  they  toss  and  roar  and  leap  ! 


Those  boiling  waves 

And  the  storm  that  raves 
At  night  o'er  their  foaming  crest, 

Resemble  the  strife 

That,  from  earliest  life, 
The  passions  have  waged  in  my  breast. 


Oh,  come  then  and  rove 

To  the  sea  or  the  grove 
When  the  moon  is  rising  bright, 

And  I  '11  whisper  there 

In  the  cool  night-air 
What  I  dare  not  in  broad  daylight. 


APPENDIX. 


UGOLINO. 

From  Dante's  Inferno,  Canto  xxxiii. 
11.  22-75. 

Translated    by     Medwin,    with     aid     from 
Shelley. 

Shelley's  contributions  are  printed  in   Ro- 
man type,  Medwin's  portion  in  italics. 

Now  had  the  loophole  of  that  dungeon  still 
Which    bears    the    name     of    Famine's 
Tower  from  me, 
And  where  7  is  fit  that  many  another  will 

Be  doomed  to  linger  in  captivity, 
Shown    thro1   its    narrow    opening    in    my 
cell, 
Moon  after  moon  slow  waning,   when  a 
sleep 
That  of  the  future  burst  the  veil,  in  dream, 

Visited  me.     It  was  a  slumber  deep 
And  evil ;  for  I  saw  —  or  I  did  seem 

To  see  —  that  tyrant  lord  his  revels  keep, 
The  leader  of  the  cruel  hunt  to  them. 
Chasing  the  wolf   and  wolf-cubs  up  ths 
steep 
Ascent  that  from  the  Pisan  is  the  screen 

Of  Lucca.      With  him  Gualandi  came, 
Simondi,    and    Lanfranchi,    bloodhounds 
lean, 
Trained  to  the  sport   and  eager  for  the 
game, 
Wide  ranging  in  his  front.     But  soon  were 
seen, 


Tho'  by  so  short   a   course,  with   spirits 
tame 
The  father  and  his  whelps  to  flag  at  once. 

When  I 
Heard  lockt  beneath  me  of  that  horrible 
tower 
The  outlet,  then  into  their  eyes  alone 

I  lookt  to  read  myself,  without  a  sign 
Or  word. 

But,  when  to  shine 
Upon   the  world,  not   us,  came  forth  the 
light 
Of  the    new  sun,   and,  thwart   my  prison 
thrown, 
Gleamed  thro'  its  narrow  chink,  a  doleful 
sight, 
Three  faces,  each  the  reflex  of  my  own, 
Were  imaged  by  this  faint    and    ghastly 
ray. 

"  Father,  our  woes  so  great  were  yet  the  less 
Would  you  but  eat  'of  us :  7  was  you  who 
clad 
Our    bodies    in    these    weeds    of    wretched- 
ness, — 
Despoil    them!"  —  Not    to    make    theur 
hearts  more  sad, 
I  husht  myself. 

Between  the  fifth  and  sixth  day,  ere  7  was 
dawn, 
1  found   myself    blind-groping    o'er    the 
three. 


675 


676 


APPENDIX. 


FROM    CALDERON'S    CISMA 
D'INGLATERRA. 

Translated     by     Medwin,    with    aid    from 
Shelley. 

Shelley's  contributions  are  printed  in  Ro- 
man type,  Medwims  portion  in  italics. 

f.-asi  thou  not    seen,  officious  with  delight, 
Move   thro'  the    illumined  air  about  the 
/lower 
The  bee,  thai  fears  to  drink  Us  fur  pie  light, 
Lest    danger    lurk    -within    that     rose's 
bower? 
Hast  thou   not    marked   the    moth's   enam- 
oured flight 
About  the  taper's  jlanie  at  evening  hour, 
Till  kindlein  that  monumental  lire 
His    sunflower    wings     their    own   funereal 
pyre  ? 


My  heart,  its  wishes  trembling  to  tinfold, 
Thus  round  the  rose  and  taper  hovering 
came ; 
And  Passions  slave,  Distrust,  in  ashes  cold 
Smothered  awhile,  but  could  not  quench, 
the  flame ; 
Till  Love,  that  grows    by    disappointment 
bold. 
And       Opportunity,       had        conquered 
Shame.  — 
And  like  the  bee  and  moth,  in  act  to  close, 
I  burnt  my  wings,  and  settled  on  the  rose. 


ADDITIONAL    STANZA    TO 
IRELAND.1 

"  I  could  stand 
Upon  thy  shores,  0  Erin,  and  could  count 
The  billows  that,  in  their  unceasing  swell, 
Dash  on  thy  beach,  and  every  wave  might 

seem 
An  instrument  in  Time,  the  giant's  grasp, 
To  burst  the  barriers  of  Eternitv. 
Proceed,    thou    giant,    conquering    and    to 

conquer; 
March  on  thy  lonely  way  !     The  nations  fall 
Beneath  thy  noiseless  footstep;  pyramids 
That  for  millenniums  have  defied  the  blast, 
And  laught  at  lightnings,  thou  dost  crush  to 

naught. 
Yon  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp, 

1  See  p.  671. 


Is  but  the  fungus  of  a  winter  day 

That  thy  light  footstep  presses  into  dust. 

Thou  art  a  conqueror,  Time  ;  all  things  give 


way 


Before  thee  but  the  fixt  and  virtuous  will; 
The  sacred  sympathy  of  soul  which  was 
When  thou  wert  not,  which  shall  be  when 
thou  perishest. 


EVENING.— TO  HARRIETS 

O  thou  bright  Sun  !  beneath  the  dark  blue 
line 
Of  western  distance  that  sublime  descend- 
est, 
And,    gleaming    lovelier   as    thy  beams    de- 
cline, 
Thy  million  hues  to  every  vapor  lendest, 
And,  over  cobweb  lawn  and  grove  and  stream 
Sheddest  the  liquid  magic  of  thy  light, 
Till  calm  Earth,  with  the  parting  splendor 
bright, 
Shows  like  the  vision  of  a  beauteous  dream ; 
What  gazer  now  with  astronomic  eye 

Could  coldly  count  the  spots  within  thy 
sphere? 
Such  were  thy  lover,  Harriet,  could  he  fly 
The  thoughts   of  all  that  makes  his  pas- 
sion dear, 
And,    turning    senseless    from    thy    warm 

caress, 
Pick  flaws  in  our  close-woven  happiness. 


TO  IANTHE.3 

I  love   thee,   Baby !   for  thine  own   sweet 
sake; 
Those   azure   eyes,   that    faintly   dimpled 

cheek, 
Thy  tender  frame,  so  eloquently  weak, 
Love  in  the  sternest    heart    of    hate    might 

wake ; 
But  more  when  o'er  thy  fitful  slumber  bend- 
ing 
Thy    mother   folds    thee   to    her    wakeful 
heart, 
Whilst  love  and  pity,  in  her  glances  blend- 
ing', 
All  that  thy  passive  eyes  can  feel  impart : 
More,  when  some  feeble  lineaments  of  her, 
Who  bore  thy  weight  beneath  her  spotless 
bosom, 

2  Evening.  —  To  Harriet.  Published  by 
Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1SS7.  Composed 
July  31,  jSi.v 

3  To  Ianthe.  Published  by  Dowden,  Life 
of  Shelley,  1887.     Composed  September,  1813^ 


APPENDIX. 


677 


As  with  deep  love  I  read  thy  face,  recur. — 
More  dear  art  thou,  O  fair  and  fragile  blos- 
som ; 

Dearest  when  most  thy  tender  traits  ex- 
press 

The  image  of  thy  mother's  loveliness. 


THE    PFNE    FOREST    OF  THE   CAS- 
C1NE    NEAR    PISA.i 

FIRST   DRAFT    OF    "  TO  JANE :    THE    INVEN- 
TION,   THE    RECOLLECTION." 

Dearest,  best  and  brightest, 

Come  away. 
To  the  woods  and  to  the  fields ! 
Dearer  than  this  fairest  day 
Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  in  the  brake. 


The  eldest  of  the  hours  of  Spring, 
Into  the  winter  wandering. 
Looks  upon  the  leafless  wood  ; 
And  the  banks  all  bare  and  rude 
Found,  it  seems,  this  halcyon  Morn 
In  February's  bosom  born, 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
Kist  the  cold  forehead  of  the  Earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea. 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free  ; 
And  waked  to  music  all  the  fountains. 
And  breathed  upon  the  rigid  mountains, 
And  made  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 


FRAGMENTS. 


Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  the  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Sapless,  gray,  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun 
To  the  sandhills  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  earliest  violets  be. 


1    The  Pine  Forest  of  the  Cascine  near  Pisa. 
Published  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  1824. 


Now  the  last  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise.  Memory,  and  write  its  praise! 
And  do  thy  wonted  work  and  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled  ; 
For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 


We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 
That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam, 

The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 
The  tempest  in  its  home. 

The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 
The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 

And  on  the  woods,  and  on  the  deep, 
The  smile  of  Heaven  lay. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  day  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies. 
Which  shed  to  earth  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise. 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

With  stems  like  serpents  interlaced. 

How  calm  it  was  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 

The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 

It  seemed  that  from  the  remotest  seat 
Of  the  white  mountain's  waste, 

To  the  bright  flower  beneath  our  feet, 
A  magic  circle  traced  :  — 

A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thinking  silent  life, 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ;  — 

And  still  it  seemed  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there. 
Was  one  whose  being  filled  with  love 

The  breathless  atmosphere. 

Were  not  the  crocuses  that  grew 

Under  that  ilex-tree 
As  beautiful  in  scent  and  hue 

As  ever  fed  the  bee  ? 


67S 


APPENDIX. 


We  stood  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough, 
And  each  seemed  like  a  sky 

Gulft  in  a  world  below ; 

A  purple  firmament  of  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 

And  clearer  than  the  day  — 

In  which  the  massy  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  waving  there. 

Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  that  clear  truth  exprest ; 

There   lay   far    glades    and    neighboring 
lawn, 

And  thro'  the  dark  green  crowd 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Under  a  speckled  cloud. 

Sweet  views,  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 

And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

Within  an  Elysium  air 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  silence  sleeping  there. 

Until  a  wandering  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  my  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  thy  bright  image  out. 

For  thou  art  good  and  dear  and  kind, 

The  forest  ever  green, 
But  less  of  peace  in  S 's  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


ON    ROBERT   EMMET'S    GRAVE.i 


No   trump   tells    thy   virtues  —  the    grave 
where  they  rest 
With  thy  dust  shall  remain  unpolluted  by 
fame, 
Till  thy  foes,  by  the  world  and  by  fortune 
carest, 
Shall  pass  like  a  mist  from  the  light  of 
thy  name. 

1  On  Robert  Emmet's  Grave.     Published  by 
Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887,  dated  1812. 


When  the  storm-cloud  that  lowers  o  'er  the 
day-beam  is  gone, 
Unchanged,  unextinguisht   its  life-spring 
will  shine ; 
When    Erin    has    ceast  with  their  memory 
to  groan, 
She  will  smile  through  the  tears  of  revival 
on  thine. 


THE 


RETROSPECT:    CWM    ELAN, 
1812.2 


A  scene,  which  wildered  fancy  viewed 
In  the  soul's  coldest  solitude, 
With  that  same  scene  when  peaceful  love 
Flings  rapture's  color  o'er  the  grove, 
When  mountain,  meadow,  wood  and  stream 
With  unalloying  glory  gleam, 
And  to  the  spirit's  ear  and  eye 
Are  unison  and  harmony. 
The  moonlight  was  my  dearer  day  ; 
Then  would  I  wander  far  away, 
And,  lingering  on  the  wild  brook's  shore 
To  hear  its  unremitting  roar, 
Would  lose  in  the  ideal  flow 
All  sense  of  overwhelming  woe  ; 
Or  at  the  noiseless  noon  of  night 
Would     climb     some    healthy    mountain's 
height, 

And  listen  to  the  mystic  sound 
That  stole  in  fitful  gasps  around. 
I  joyed  to  see  the  streaks  of  day 
Above  the  purple  peaks  decay, 
And  watch  the  latest  line  of  light 
Just  mingling  with  the  shades  of  night; 
For  day  with  me  was  time  of  woe 
When  even  tears  refused  to  flow  ; 
Then  would  1  stretch  my  languid  frame 
Beneath  the  wild  woods'  gloomiest  shade, 
And  try  to  quench  the  ceaseless  flame 
That  on  my  withered  vitals  preyed ; 
Would  close  mine  eyes  and  dream  I  were 
On  some  remote  and  friendless  plain, 
And  long  to  leave  existence  there, 
If  with  it  I  might  leave  the  pain 
That  with  a  finger  cold  and  lean 
Wrote  madness  on  my  withering  mien. 

It  was  not  unrequited  love 
That  bade  my  'wildered  spirit  rove  ; 
'T  was  not  the  pride  disdaining  life, 
That  with  this  mortal  world  at  strife 


-   The    Retrospect:    Civm    Elan,    18 12. 
lished  by  Dowden,  Life  0/  Shelley,   1887. 


Pub- 


APPENDIX. 


679 


Would   yield  to  the  soul's  inward  sense, 
Then  groan  in  human  impotence, 
And  weep  because  it  is  not  given 
To  taste  on  Earth  the  peace  of  Heaven. 
'  T  was  not  that  in  the  narrow  sphere 
When  nature  fixt  my  wayward  fate 
There  was  no  friend  or  kindred  dear 
Formed  to  become  that  spirit's  mate, 
Which,  searching  on  tired  pinion,  found 
Barren  and  cold  repulse  around  ; 
Oh,  no  !  yet  each  one  sorrow  gave 
New  graces  to  the  narrow  grave. 

For  broken  vows  had  early  quelled 
The  stainless  spirit's  vestal  name  ; 
Yes  !  whilst  the  faithful  bosom  swelled, 
Then  the  envenomed  arrow  came, 
And  apathy's  unaltering  eye 
Beamed  coldness  on  the  misery  ; 
And  early  I  had  learned  to  scorn 
The  chains  of  clay  that  bound  a  son 
Panting  to  seize  the  wings  of  morn, 
And  where  its  vital  powers  were  born 
To  soar,  and  spur  the  cold  control 
Which  the  vile  slaves  of  earthly  night 
Would  twine  around  its  struggling  flight. 

Oh,  many  were  the  friends  whom  fame 
Had  linkt  with  the  unmeaning  name, 
Whose  magic  markt  among  mankind 
The  casket  of  my  unknown  mind. 
Which  hidden  from  the  vulgar  glare 
Imbibed  no  fleeting  radiance  there. 
My  darksome  spirit  sought  —  it  found 
A  friendless  solitude  around. 
For  who  that  might  undaunted  stand, 
The  savior  of  a  sinking  land. 
Would  crawl,  its  ruthless  tyrant's  slave, 
And  fatten  upon  Freedom's  grave. 
Though  doomed  with  her  to  perish,  where 
The  captive  clasps  abhorred  despair. 

They  could  not  share  the  bosom's  feeling, 
Which,  passion's  every  throb  revealing, 
Dared  force  on  the  world's  notice  cold 
Thoughts  of  unprofitable  mould, 
Who  bask  in  Custom's  tickle  ray, 
Fit  sunshine  of  such  wintry  day  ! 
They  could  not  in  a  twilight  walk 
Weave  an  impassioned  web  of  talk,  " 
Till  mvsteries  the  spirits  press 
In  wild  yet  tender  awfulness, 
Then  feel  within  our  narrow  sphere 
How  little  yet  how  great  we  are  ! 
But  they  might  shine  in  courtly  glare, 
Attract  the  rabble's  cheapest  stare, 
And  might  command  where  'er  they  move 
A  thing  that  bears  the  name  of  love  ; 
They  might  be  learned,  witty,  gay, 
Foremost  in  fashion's  gilt  array, 
On  Fame's  emblazoned  pages  shine, 
Be  princes'  friends,  but  never  mine  1 


Ye  jagged  peaks  that  frown  sublime, 
Mocking  the  blunted  scythe  of  Time, 
Whence  I  would  watch  its  lustre  pale 
Steal  from  the  moon  o'er  yonder  vale : 

Thou  rock,  whose  bosom  black  and  vast, 
Bared  to  the  stream's  unceasing  flow, 
Ever  its  giant  shade  doth  cast 
On  the  tumultuous  surge  below: 

Woods,  to  whose  depths  retires  to  die 
The  wounded  echo's  melody, 
And  whither  this  lone  spirit  bent 
The  footstep  of  a  wild  intent  : 

Meadows  !  whose  green  and  spangled  breast 
These  fevered  limbs  have  often  prest, 
Until  the  watchful  fiend  Despair 
Slept  in  the  soothing  coolness  there  I 
Have  not  your  varied  beauties  seen 
The  sunken  eye,  the  withering  mien, 
Sad  traces  of  the  unuttered  pain 
That  froze  my  heart  and  burned  my  brain. 
How  changed  since  Nature's  summer  form 
Had  last  the  power  my  grief  to  charm, 
Since  last  ye  soothed  my  spirit's  sadness 
Strange  chaos  of  a  mingled  madness  ! 
Changed  !  —  not  the  loathsome    worm   that 

fed 
In  the  dark  mansions  of  the  dead 
Now  soaring  thro'  the  fields  of  air, 
And  gathering  purest  nectar  there, 
A  butterfly,  whose  million  hues 
The  dazzled  eye  of  wonder  views, 
Long  lingering  on  a  work  so  strange, 
Has  undergone  so  bright  a  change. 

How  do  I  feel  my  happiness? 
I  cannot  tell,  but  they  may  guess 
Whose  every  gloomy  feeling  gone, 
Friendship  and  passion  feel  alone; 
Who  see  mortality's  dull  clouds 
Before  affection's  murmur  fly, 
Whilst  the  mild  glances  of  her  eye 
Pierce  the  thin  veil  of  flesh  that  shrouds 
The  spirit's  inmost  sanctuary. 

O  thou  !  whose  virtues  latest  known, 
First  in  this  heart  yet  claim  'st  a  throne ; 
Whose  downy  sceptre  still  shall  share 
The  gentle  sway  with  virtue  there ; 
Thou  fair  in  form,  and  pure  in  mind, 
Whose  ardent  friendship  rivets  fast 
The  flowery  band  our  fates  that  bind, 
Which  incorruptible  shall  last 
When  duty's  hard  and  cold  control 
Had  thawed  around  the  burning  soul, — 
The  gloomiest  retrospects  that  bind 
With  crowns  of  thorn  the  bleeding  mind, 
The  prospects  of  most  doubtful  hue 
That  rise  on  Fancy's  shuddering  view, — 
Are  gilt  by  the  reviving  ray 
Which  thou  hast  flung  upon  my  day. 


68o 


APPENDIX. 


FRAGMENT    OF   A    SONNET.— TO 
HARRIET.l 

Ever  as  now  with  Love  and  Virtue's  glow 
May  thy  unwithering  soul  not  cease  to  burn, 
Still  may  thine  heart  with  those  pure  thoughts 

o'erflow 
Which  force  from  mine  such  quick  and  warm 

return. 


TO    HARRIETS 

It  is  not  blasphemy  to  hope  that  Heaven 
More  perfectly  will  give  those  nameless  joys 
Which  throb  within  the  pulses  of  the  blood 
And  sweeten  all  that  bitterness  which  Earth 
Infuses  in  the  heaven-born  soul.     O  thou 
Whose  dear  love  gleamed  upon  the  gloomy 

path 
Which  this  lone  spirit  travelled,  drear  and 

cold, 
Yet  swiftly  leading  to  those  awful  limits 
Which  mark  the  bounds  of  Time  and  of  the 

space 
When  Time  shall  be  no  more;  wilt  thou  not 

turn 
Those  spirit-beaming  eyes  and  look  on  me, 
Until  I  be  assured  that  Earth  is  Heaven, 
And  Heaven  is  Earth  ?  —  will  not  thy  glow- 
ing cheek, 
Glowing  with  soft  suffusion,  rest  on  mine, 
And    breathe  magnetic  sweetness  thro'  the 

frame 
Of  my  corporeal  nature,  thro'  the  soul 
Now  knit  with  these  fine  fibres  ?     I  would 

give 
The  longest  and  the  happiest  day  that  fate 
Has  markt  on  my  existence  but  to  feel 
One   soul-reviving    kiss.  .  .  .  O   thou   most 

dear, 
'T  is  an  assurance  that  this  Earth  is  Heaven, 
And  Heaven  the  flower  of   that   untainted 

seed 
Which  springeth  here  beneath  such  love  as 

ours. 
Harriet !  let  death  all  mortal  ties  dissolve, 


1  Fragment  of  a  Sonnet  to  Harriet.  Pub- 
lished by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887,  and 
dated  Aug.  1,  1812. 

2  To  Harriet.  Published,  5-13,  by  Forman, 
58-69,  by  Shelley.  Notes  to  Queen  Mao,  18 13, 
and  entire  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  1887, 
dated  1812. 


But  ours  shall  not   be    mortal !     The   cold 

hand 
Of  Time  may  chill  the  love  of  earthly  minds 
Half  frozen  now  ;  the  frigid  intercourse 
Of  common  souls  lives  but  a  summer's  day ; 
It  dies,  where  it  arose,  upon  this  earth. 
But  ours !  oh,   't  is  the  stretch  of   fancy's 

hope 
To  portray  its  continuance  as  now, 
Warm,   tranquil,    spirit-healing;    nor   when 

age 
Has  tempered  these  wild  ecstasies,  and  given 
A  soberer  tinge  to  the  luxurious  glow 
Which  blazing  on  devotion's  pinnacle 
Makes  virtuous  passion  supersede  the  power 
Of  reason  ;  nor  when  life's  festival  sun 
To  deeper  manhood  shall  have  ripened  me  ; 
Nor  when  some  years  have  added  judgment's 

store 
To  all  thy  woman  sweetness,  all  the  fire 
Which  throbs  in  thine  enthusiast  heart ;  not 

then 
Shall  holy  friendship  (for  what  other  name 
May  love  like  ours  assume  ?),  not  even  then 
Shall  custom  so  corrupt,  or  the  cold  forms 
Of  this  desolate  world  so  harden  us, 
As  when  we  think  of  the  dear  love  that  binds 
Our  souls  in  soft  communion,  while  we  know 
Each  other's  thoughts  and  feelings,  can  we 

say 
Unblushingly  a  heartless  compliment, 
Praise,  hate,  or    love  with    the   unthinking 

world, 
Or  dare  to  cut  the  unrelaxing  nerve 
That  knits  our  love  to  virtue.     Can  those 

eyes, 
Beaming  with  mildest  radiance  on  my  heart 
To  purify  its  purity,  e'er  bend 
To  soothe  its  vice  or  consecrate  its  fears  ? 
Never,  thou  second  self !     Is  confidence 
So  vain  in  virtue  that  I  learn  to  doubt 
The  mirror  even  of  Truth  ?     Dark  flood  of 

Time, 
Roll  as  it  listeth  thee ;  I  measure  not 
By  month  or  moments  thy  ambiguous  course. 
Another  may  stand  by  me  on  thy  brink, 
And  watch  the  bubble  whirled    beyond   his 

ken, 
Which   pauses   at    my  feet.     The   sense   of 

love, 
The  thirst  for  action,  and  the  impassioned 

thought 
Prolong  my  being;  if  I  wake  no  more, 
My  life  more  actual  living  will  contain 
Than    some    gray    veterans    of   the    world's 

cold  school, 
Whose  listless  hours  unprofitably  roll 
By  one  enthusiast  feeling  unredeemed, 
Virtue  and  Love!  unbending  Fortitude, 
Freedom,  Pevotedness  and  Purity  ! 
That  life  my  spirit  consecrates  to  you. 


APPENDIX. 


681 


SONNET. 

TO      A     BALLOON      LADEN      WITH     KNOWL- 
EDGE. 

Bright  ball  of  flame   that  thro'  the  gloom 
of  even 
Silently  takest  thine  ethereal  way, 
And  with  surpassing  glory  dimm'st  each 
ray 
Twinkling  amid   the  dark   blue    depths    of 

Heaven, — 
Unlike    the    fire    thou    bearest,    soon     shalt 
thou 
Fade  like  a  meteor  in  surrounding  gloom, 
Whilst    that    unquenchable     is    doomed    to 
glow 
A  watch-light  by  the  patriot's  lonely  tomb  ; 
A  ray  of  courage  to  the  opprest  and  poor  ; 
A    spark,    tho'   gleaming    on    the    hovel's 
hearth, 
Which  thro'  the  tyrant's  gilded  domes  shall 
roar ; 
A  beacon  in  the  darkness  of  the  Earth  ; 
A  sun  which,  o'er  the  renovated  scene, 
Shall  dart  like  Truth  where  Falsehood  yet 
has  been. 


SONNET.2 

OX  LAUNCHING  SOME  BOTTLES  FILLED 
WITH  KNOWLEDGE  INTO  THE  BRISTOL 
CHANNEL. 

Vessels    of    heavenly  medicine!    may   the 
breeze 
Auspicious  waft  your   dark   green    forms 

to  shore ; 
Safe  may  ye  stem  the  wide  surrounding 
roar 
Of  the  wild  whirlwinds  and  the  raging  seas  ; 
And  oh  !  if  Liberty  e'er  deigned  to  stoop 
From   yonder  lowly  throne  her  crownless 
brow, 
Sure  she  will  breathe  around  your  emerald 
group 
The  fairest  breezes  of  her  west  that  blow. 
Yes!  she  will  waft  ye  to  some  freeborn  soul 
Whose  eye-team,  kindling  as  it  meets  your 
freight, 

1  Sonnet :  To  a  Balloon  laden  with  Kncnul- 
edge.  Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  S/ielley. 
1SS7,  dated  August,  1S12. 

2  Sonnet :  On  launching  some  Bottles  /tiled 
with  h'nmuledge  into  the  Bristol  Chanttr'.  Pub- 
lished by  Dowden,  Li/e  of  Shelley,  1887,  dated 
August,  1H12-. 


Her  heaven-born  flame  in  suffering  Earth 

will  light, 
Until  its  radiance  gleams  from  pole  to  pole, 
And    tyrant-hearts    with    powerless   envy 

burst 
To  see  their  night  of  ignorance  dispersed. 


FRAGMENT    OF   A    SONNET.3 

FAREWELL    TO    NORTH    DEVON. 

Where  man's  profane  and  tainting  hand 
Nature's  primeval  loveliness  has  marred, 
And    some  few  souls  of   the  high  bliss  de- 
barred 
Which  else  obey  her  powerful  command ; 

.  .  .  mountain  piles 
That    load  in   grandeur  Cambria's  emerald 
vales. 


ON  LEAVING  LONDON  FOR  WALESA 

Hail  to  thee,  Cambria!  for  the  unfettered 

wind 
Which  from  thy  wilds  even  now  methinks 

I  feel, 
Chasing  the  clouds  that  roll  in  wrath  be- 
hind, 
And  tightening  the  soul's  laxest  nerves  to 

steel ; 
True  mountain  Liberty  alone  may  heal 
The  pain  which  Custom's  obduracies  bring, 
And  he  who  dares  in  fancy  even  to  steal 
One  draught  from  Snowdon's  ever  sacred 
spring 
Blots  out  the  unholiest  rede  of  worldly  wit- 
nessing. 

And  shall  that  soul,  to   selfish   peace  re- 
signed, 
So  soon  forget  the  woe  its  fellows  share  ? 
Can  Snowdon's   Lethe  from  the  freeborn 

mind 
So  soon  the  page  of  injured  penury  tear? 
Does  this  line  mass  of  human  passion  dare 
To  sleep,  unhonoring  the  patriot's  fall, 
Or  life's  sweet  load  in  quietude  to  bear 
While   millions  famish  even   in   Luxury's 
hall. 
And  Tyranny,  high-raised,  stern  lowers  on 


3  Fragment  of  a  Sonnet :  Fareiuell  to  North 
Devon.  Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Sliel- 
ley,  1S87,  dated  August,  1S12. 

*  On  Leaving  London  for  Wales :  A  Frag- 
ment, Published  by  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley, 
1887,  dated  November,  1812. 


682 


APPENDIX. 


No,   Cambria !  never  may  thy  matchless 

vales 
A    heart    so  false  to    hope    and    virtue 

shield ; 
Nor  ever  may  thy  spirit-breathing  gales 
Waft  freshness  to  the  slaves  who  dare  to 

yield. 
For  me !  .  .  .  the  weapon  that  I  burn  to 
wield 
I  seek  amid  thy  rocks  to  ruin  hurled, 
That   Reason's  flag  may  over  Freedom's 

field, 
Symbol    of    bloodless   victory,   wave   un- 
furled, 
A  meteor-sign    of   love  effulgent   o  'er  the 
world. 


Do  thou,  wild  Cambria,  calm  each  strug- 
gling thought ; 
Cast  thy  sweet  veil  of  rocks  and  woods 

between, 
That  by  the  soul  to  indignation  wrought 
Mountains  and   dells  be  mingled  with  the 

scene  ; 
Let  me  forever  be  what  I  have  been, 
But  not  forever  at  my  needy  door 
Let    Misery  linger   speechless,   pale,   and 

lean  ; 
I  am  the  friend  of  the  unfriended  poor,  — 
Let    me    not    madly  stain  their   righteous 
cause  in  gore. 


NOTES. 


Page  39. 

Throughout  this  varied  and  eternal  world 
etc. 

In  Shelley's  edition  there  is  a  comma  after 
clement  and  a  full  stop  at  remained.  Mr. 
Tutin  proposed  the  emendation. 


Page  94. 

The  Dcemon  of  the  World.     A  Fragment. 

Part  I.  appeared  in  the  volume  which  con- 
tained Alastor.     Part  II.  was  recovered  by    j 
Mr.    Forman  from   a  copy  of  Queen    Mab 
revised  by  Shelley. 

Page  104. 

Preface  to  Alastor. 

Shelley's  Preface  to  Alastor,  etc.,  closed 
with  the  following  reference  to  "  The  Daemon 
of  the  World":  "The  Fragment  entitled 
'The  Daemon  of  the  World  '  is  a  de- 
tached part  of  a  poem  which  the  author 
does  not  intend  for  publication.  The  metre 
in  which  it  is  composed  is  that  of  'Samson 
Agonistes' and  the  Italian  pastoral  drama, 
and  may  be  considered  as  the  natural  meas- 
ure into  which  poetical  conceptions,  ex- 
pressed in  harmonious  language,  naturally 
fall." 

Page  107. 

Herself  a  poet. 

Mrs.  Shelley's  second  edition,  1839,  reads 
"  Himself  a  poet,"  which  Mr.  Rossetti  fol- 
lows. 

Page  113. 

In  the  light  ef  evening,  and,  its  precipice 

I  insert  the  comma  after  and. 


Page  117. 

The  Revolt  of  Islam. 

To  restore  the  text  of  "  Laon  and  Cythna  " 
it  will  be  n-ecessary  to  make  the  following 
changes  in  ."  The  Revolt  of  Islam."  At  the 
close  of  Preface,  p.  121,  add  as  follows:  — 
"  In  the  personal  conduct  of  my  Hero  and 
Heroine,  there  is  one  circumstance  which 
was  intended  to  startle  the  reader  from  the 
trance  of  ordinary  life.  It  was  my  object 
to  break  through  the  crust  of  those  outworn 
opinions  on  which  established  institutions 
depend.  I  have  appealed  therefore  to  the 
most  universal  of  all  feelings,  and  have  en 
deavored  to  strengthen  the  moral  sense,  by 
forbidding  it  to  waste  its  energies  in  seeking 
to  avoid  actions  which  are  only  crimes  of 
convention.  It  is  because  there  is  so  great 
a  multitude  of  artificial  vices  that  there  are 
so  few  real  virtues.  Those  feelings  alone 
which  are  benevolent  or  malevolent,  are 
essentially  good  or  bad.  The  circumstance 
of  which  I  speak  was  introduced,  however, 
merely  to  accustom  men  to  that  charity  and 
toleration  which  the  exhibition  of  a  practice 
widely  differing  from  their  own  has  a  tend- 
ency to  promote.1  Nothing  indeed  can  be 
more  mischievous  than  many  actions,  inno- 
cent in  themselves,  which  might  bring  down 
upon  individuals  the  bigoted  contempt  and 
rage  of  the  multitude." 

P.  140,  c.  11.  st.  xxi.  1.  1 : 
"  I  had  a  little  sister,  whose  fair  eyes  " 

P.  140,  c.  11.  st.  xxv.  1    2  : 

"  To  love  in  human  life,  this  sister  sweet," 

P    145,  c.  111.  st.  i.  1    1 : 
"  What   thoughts   had   sway  over  my  sister's 
slumber" 

P.  145,  c.  in.  st.  i.  1.  3 : 

"As    if    they   did    ten   thousand    years   out- 
number" 

1  The  sentiments  connected  with  and  charac- 
teristic of  this  circumstance  have  no  personal 
reference  to  the  Writer.     [Shelley's  note  J 


683 


684 


NOTES. 


P.  157,  c.  iv.  st.  xxx.  1.  6: 

"And   left   it   vacant  —  't  was  her    brother's 
face—" 

P.  167,  c.  v.  st.  xlvii.  1.  5 : 
"  I  had  a  brother  once,  but  he  is  dead  !  —  " 

P.  175,  c.  vi.  st.  xxiv.  1.  8  : 
"  My  own  sweet  sister  looked),  with  joy  did 

quail," 

P.  177,  c.  vi.  st.  xxxi.  1.  6: 

"  The   common    blood   which    ran  within  our 

frames," 

P.  178,  c.  vi.  st.  xxxix.  11.  6-9: 
"  With  such  close  sympathies,  for  to  each  other 
Had    high    and   solemn    hopes,    the   gentle 

might 
Of  earliest  love,  and  all  the  thoughts  which 
smother 
Cold  Evii's  power,  now  linked  a  sister  and  a 
brother." 

P.  178,  c.  vi.  st.  xl.  1.  1  : 

"And  such  is  Nature's  modesty,  that  those" 

P.  190,  c.  vin.  st.  iv.  1.  9: 

"  Dream  ye  that  God  thus  builds  for  man  in 

solitude  ?  " 

P.  190,  c.  vin.  st.  v.  1.  1  : 

"What   then   is    God?     Ye    mock    yourselves 
and  give  " 

P.  190,  c.  vin.  st.  vi.  1.  1  : 
"What    then    is    God?      Some     moonstruck 

sophist  stood  " 

P.  190,  c.  vin.  st.  vi.  11.  8,  9: 

"  And  that  men  say  God  has  appointed  Death 
On   all  who  scorn  his  will  to  wreak  immortal 
wrath." 

P.  190,  c.  vm.  st.  vii.  11.  1-4. 

"  Men   say   they    have    seen  God,  and   heard 
from   God. 
Or  known  from  others  who  have  known 
such  things, 
And  that  his  will  is  all  our  law,  a  rod 

To  scourge  us  into  slaves  —  that    Priests 
and  Kings  " 

P.  190,  c.  vm.  st.  viii.  1.  1 : 

"  And  it  is  said,  that  God  will  punish  wrong ;  " 

P.  190,  c.  vm.  st.  viii.  11.  3,  4: 

"And  his  red  hell's  undying  snakes  among 
Will  bind  the  wretch  on  whom  he  fixed  a 
stain  " 

P.  191,  c.  viii.  st.  xiii.  11.  3,  4: 

"  For  it  is  said  God  rules  both  high  and  low, 
And    man    is    made    the    captive    of   his 
brother;  " 

P.  197,  c.  ix.  st.  xiii.  1.  8: 

"  To  curse  the  rebels.     To  their  God  did  they  " 

P.  197,  c.  ix.  st    xiv.  1.  6; 

"  By  God,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity." 

P.   198,  c.   ix.  st.  xv.     The  stanza  contains  ten 
lines  — 11.  4-7  as  follows: 


"  There  was  one  teacher,  and  must  ever  be, 
They  said,  even  God,  who,  the  necessity 
Of  rule  and  wrong  had  armed  against  man- 
kind, 

His  slave  and  his  avenger  there  to  be ;  " 

P.  198,  c.  ix.  st.  xviii.  11.  3-6: 

"  And  Hell  and  Awe,  which  in  the  heart  of  man 
Is  God  itself;  the  Priests  its  downfall  knew, 
As  day  by  day  their  altars  lovelier  grew, 
Till  they  were  left  alone  within  the  fane  ;  " 

P.  206,  c.-x.  st.  xxii.  1.  9  : 

"  On  fire  !   Almighty  God  his  hell  on  earth  has 
spread !  " 

P.  207,  c.  x.  st.  xxvi.  11.  7,  8: 

"  Of  their  Almighty  God,  the  armies  wind 
In  sad  procession  :  each  among  the  train." 

P.  207,  c.  x.  st.  xxviii.  1.  1 : 

"  O  God  Almighty  !  thou  alone  hast  power." 

P.  208,  c.  x.  st.  xxxi.  1.  1  ; 

"  And  Oromaze,  and  Christ,  and  Mahomet." 

P.  208,  c.  x.  st.  xxxii.  1.  1  : 

"He   was   a    Christian   Priest   from   whom  it 
came  " 

P.  208,  c-  x.  st.  xxxii.  1.  4 : 

"  To  quell  the  rebel  Atheists  ;  a  dire  guest  " 

P.  208,  c.  x.  st.  xxxii.  1.  9: 

"  To  wreak  his  fear  of  God  on  vengeance  on 
mankind  " 

P.  208,  c.  x.  st.  xxxiv.  11.  5,  6: 

"  His  cradled  Idol,  and  the  sacrifice 

Of   God  to  God's   own  wrath  —  that   Islam's 

creed  " 

P.  208,  c.  x.  st.  xxxv.  1.  9: 

"And    thrones,  which  rest   on  faith  in    God, 
nigh  overturned." 

P.  209,  c.  x.  st.  xxxix.  1.  4 : 

"  Of  God  may  be  appeased."     He  ceased,  and 

they  " 

P.  209,  c.  x.  st.  xl.  1.  5  : 

"  With  storms   and  shadows   girt,    sate    God, 

alone," 

P.  210,  c.  x.  st.  xliv.  1.  9  : 

"  As    '  hush  !    hark  !      Come   they  yet  ?     God, 
God,  thine  hour  is  near  !  '  " 

P.  210,  c.  x.  st.  xlv.  1.  8  : 

"  Men   brought    their   atheist  kindred   to   ap- 
pease " 

P.  211,  c.  x.  st.  xlvii.  1.  6: 

"  The  threshold  of  God's  throne,  and  it  was 
she  !  " 

P.  214,  c.  xi.  st.  xvi.  1.  1 . 

"  Ye  turn  to  God  for  aid  in  your  distress ;  " 

P.  216,  c.  xi.  st.  xxv.  1.  7  : 

"  Swear  by  your  dreadful  God."  —  "  We  swear, 
we  swear  !  " 

P.  218,  c.  XII.  st.  x.  1.  9 : 

"  Truly   for  self,  thus  thought  that  Christian 
Priest  indeed," 


MOTES. 


685 


P.  21S,  c.  xii.  st.  xi.  1.  9: 

"  A  woman  ?     God  has  sent  his  other  victim 
here." 

P.  21S,  c.  xii.  st.  xii.  11.  6-S : 

"  Will  I  stand  up  before  God's  golden  throne, 
And  cry,  O  Lord,  to  thee  did  1  betray 
An    Atheist ;    but   for   me    she    would   have 
known." 

P.  221,  c    xii.  st.  xxix.  1.  4  : 

"In  torment  an  1  in  fire  have  Atheists  gone  ;  " 

P.  221,  c.  xii.  st.  xxx.  1.  4: 

"  How  Atheists  and  Republicans  can  die  ;  " 

Page  170. 

DcncatJi   whose  spires  which  swayed  in   the 
red  flame 

Shelley's  edition  reads  light  for  flame. 
The  emendation  is  Mr.  Rossetti's. 

Page  171. 

And  the  great  gate.  Then,  none  kntw  -whence 
or  why, 

In  Shelley's  edition  there  is  a  comma  after 
gate.     The  emendation  is  Mr.  Rossetti's. 

Page  172. 

As  sudden   earthquakes  light  many  a  vol- 
cano-isle, 

In  Shelley's  edition  there  is  a  full  stop  at 
isle.  The  comma  is  substituted  by  Mr. 
Formaii. 

Page  182. 

Which  dawned  through  the  rent  soul;   and 
words  it  gave, 

Shelley's  edition  has  no  comma  after  gate 
nor  after  gestures,  nor  has  it  marks  of  paren- 
thesis around  line  4  of  the  stanza.  The 
emendation  is  Mr.  A.  C.  Bradley's. 

Page  191. 

"  Oh  !  Love,  who  to  the  heart  of  wandering 
man 

Shelley's  edition  has  "  hearts  of  wander- 
ing men."  The  emendation  is  Mr.  Ros- 
setti's. 

Page  191. 

And  Hate  is  throned  on  high  with  Fear  his 
mother, 

This  is  the  reading  of  "  Laonand  Cyth- 
na."  "The  Revolt  of  Islam"  has  "her 
mother."  There  is  no  authority  for  her,  Mr. 
Forman  says,  in  Shelley's  revised  copy. 


Page  197. 

Words  which   the  lore  of  truth   in  hues  of 
flame 

Shelley's  edition  reads  "hues  of  grace." 
The  emendation  is  Mr.  Porman's. 

Page  219. 

Near  me,   among  the  snakes.      When  there 
had  fled 

Shelley's  edition  reads  "  What  then."  The 
emendation  is  Mr.  Forman's. 

Page  222. 

I    When  the  broad  sunrise  filled  with   decpen- 
ing  gold 
Shelley's  edition  reads  "  Where  the  broad 
sunrise?       The    emendation    is    Mr.    Ros- 

j    setti's. 

Page  223. 

Where  its  wild  surges  with   the  lake  were 

blended : 

Shelley's   edition    reads  "  When   its  wild 
\    surges."     The  emendation  is  Mr.  Rossetti's. 

Page  223. 

Our  bark  hung  there,  as    on    a    line   sus- 
pended 

Shelley's  edition  reads  "  as  one  line  sus- 
pended."   The  emendation  is  Mr.  Rossetti's. 
j    In  the  next  line  Shelley's  edition  has  a  semi- 
j    colon  after  "  lake." 

Page  226. 
Of  an  ancestral  name  the  orphan  chief, 

So  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  later  editions.  In 
the  "Posthumous  Poems"  there  is  a  full 
^top  after  chief. 

Page  229. 
Autl  sweet  and  subtle  talk  they  evermore, 
So  in  the  "  Posthumous  Poems  ; "  in  later 
editions,  "  now  evermore." 

Page  236. 
And  down  my  cheeks  the  quick  tears  ran 
Mr.  Rossetti  reads  "  fell  "  for  "  ran." 

Page  237. 
Which  all  that  I  had  undergone 
So  in  Shelley's  edition.     Mr.  Forman  sug- 
gests "  While"  for  "  Which,"  and  three  lines 
farther  "  had  almost  burst  "  for  "  and  almost 
burst." 


686 


NOTES. 


Page  246. 

{Did  they  not,  love,  demand  too  much, 
Those  dying  murmurs  ?) 
The  marks  of  parenthesis  are  due  to  Mr. 
Rossetti. 

Page  246. 
Had  rescue  from  a  chasm  of  tears  ; 
Shelley's  edition  reads  "  rescued."      The 
emendation  is  Mr.  Forman's. 

Page  246. 

She  ceased.  —  "  Lo,  where  red  morning  thro ' 
the  ■wood'''' 

Shelley's  edition  reads  "  woods."  The 
emendation  is  Mr.  Rossetti's. 

Page  248. 

Julian  and  Maddalo. 

The  text  of  this  poem  has  been  finally 
ascertained  by  Mr.  Forman  from  Shelley's 
MS.,  sent  to  Leigh  Hunt,  and  placed  with 
other  precious  MSS.  at  Mr.  Forman's  dis- 
posal by  Mr.  Townshend  Mayer. 

Page  283. 

Withering  in  destined  pain :  but  who  rains 
down 

Shelley's  edition  has  "reigns  down," 
which  Mr.  Forman  defends. 

Page  285. 
Which  in  the  winds  and  on  the  waves  doth 


The  word    and,  introduced  here  by    Mr. 
Rossetti,  is  wanting  in  Shelley's  edition. 

Page  286. 

And  cling  to   it;  tho'   under   my   wrath's 
night 
Shelley's   edition  reads   "  wrath's  might." 
Mrs.  Shelley  made  the  correction. 

Page  289. 

Than   all  thy  sisters,    this   is    the    mystic 
shell ; 
Mrs.  Shelley  omits  the  word  "  is.' 

Page  294. 

Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors :  mould- 
ering round 
Mr.    Rossetti    removes    the   colon    after 
"  conquerors,"  and   puts    a  full    stop    aftet 
"  round." 


Page  294. 

The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man 
remains  etc. 

Mr.  Rossetti  reads  — 

"  The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen.     The  man 

remains,  — 
Spectreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man  • 
Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nationless, 
Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  kin? 
Over  himself  ;  just,  gentle,  wise  :  but  man. 
Passionless  ?    no  :  — .  yet  free  from  guilt  or 

pain,  —  " 

Page  298. 

Purple  and  azure,  white,  and  green,  and 
golden, 

The  "  and  "  before  "  green  "  is  due  to  Mr. 
Rossetti. 

Page  301. 

Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and 
life,  doth  move, 

So  MS.  and  Mr.  Forman  ;  other  editions 
"  radiance  and  light." 

Page  301. 
A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe, 

So  Mrs.  Shelley  ;  in  original  edition  "  in- 
frozen." 

Page  302. 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 
That  it  should  be  so. 

Mr.  Rossetti  makes  these  lines  the  close 
of  the  preceding  speech  —  that  of  the  moon. 

Page  351. 
Whose  love  was  as  a  bond  to  all  our  loves 

The  needful  word  as  was  supplied  by 
Mr.  Rossetti. 

Page  355. 
The  Mask  of  Anarchy. 

Several  readings  different  from  those  of 
the  edition  of  1832  are  derived  from  a  MS. 
mainly  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  handwriting,  and 
used  by  Mr.  Forman  in  his  edition  of  Shel- 
ley's Poetical  Works. 

Page  367. 

To  bully  one  another  's  guilt. 

The  original  edition  has  out  for  one,  cor- 
rected by  Mr.  Forman. 


NOTES. 


687 


Page  376. 
Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne. 

The  text  as  first  printed  has  been  emended 
with  the  aid  of  readings  supplied  by  Dr. 
Garnett  from  Shelley's  draft,  and  by  Mr. 
Forman  from  a  transcript  in  Mrs.  Shelley's 
handwriting. 

Page  3S1. 
The  Witch  of  Atlas. 

Some  readings  are  derived  from  a  tran- 
script in  Mrs.  Shelley's  handwriting  used  by 
Mr.  Forman. 

Page  384. 

//  was  their  work  to  bear  to  many  a  saint 

So  Mr.  Rossetti  ;  previous  ed  its  work. 

Page  447. 

Fear, 
Revenge  and  Wrong  bring  forth  their  kind, 

Dr.  Garnett  ("  Relics  of  Shelley ")  had 
printed  "  For  Revenge."  The  correction 
is  Mr.  Rossetti's. 

Page  456 
Fragments  of  an  Unfinished  Drama. 

These  fragments  were  in  part  printed  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  in  part  obtained  from  MS.  by 
Dr.  Garnett,  and  first  printed  by  Mr.  Ros- 
setti. The  passage  of  prose  on  p.  456  is 
Mrs.  Shelley's. 

Page  461. 
Charles  the  First. 

These  fragments  were  in  part  printed  by 
Mrs.  Shelley,  in  part  deciphered  from  MS., 
and  constructed  in  their  present  form  by 
Mr.  Rossetti.  The  list  of  Dramatis  Per 
so>ut.  was  drawn  up  by  Mr.  Forman.  Two 
or  three  emendations  are  due  to  Mr.  Forman. 

Page  474. 
The  Triumph  of  Life. 

Emendations  of  the  text  as  originally 
printed  were  derived  from  MS.,  by  Dr. 
Garnett. 

Page  476. 

Tempering   the    light.       Upon    the    chariot 

beam 
Mr.       Rossetti's       emendation.  Mrs. 

Shelley  read  — 
"  Tempering    the    light    upon    the    chariot    I 

beam  ,  " 


Page  478. 

Said    the  grim    Feature    {of   my   thought 
aware) . 

So       Mr.      Rossetti,      emending       Mrs. 
Shelley's  — 

"  Said  the   grim   Feature  of   my   thought : 
'  Aware      .  .  '  " 

Page  489. 

Lines. 

Named      "  November      1815  "      in      the 
Literary  Pocket-Book  for  1823. 

Page  490. 

"  /  never  saw  the  sun  7      We  will  walk  Jiere 

Mr.   Forman    makes  the    ingenious    sug- 
gestion — 

"  1  never  saw  the  sun-rise  ?     We  will  wake 
here  ..." 


Page  497. 

The  flames  were  fiercely  vomited 

Flames  is  Mr.  Rossetti's  emendation  on 
the  line  as  previously  printed  — "  The 
waves,"  etc. 

Page  499. 

To  the  Lord  Chancellor. 

In  this  poem  and  that  to  William  Shelley 
some  readings  are  derived  from  transcripts 
in  Mrs.  Shelley's  handwriting,  consulted  by 
Mr.  Forman. 

Page  499. 

No,  Music,  thou  art  not  the  "  food  of  Love," 

So  Mr.  Forman,  no  doubt  rightly  :  pre- 
vious editions  "  god  of  Love." 

Page  502. 

Otho. 

These  two  stanzas  were  printed  by  Mrs 
Shelley.  The  "  Fragments  "  which  follow 
were  printed  by  Dr.  Garnett.  Mr.  Forman 
and  Dr.  Garnett  think  it  very  likely  that 
they  belong  to  "  Otho." 

Page  506. 

To  the  Nile. 

First  printed  by  Mr.  Townshend  Mayer 
in  the  St.  James's  Magazine,  March  1879. 


6X8 


NOTES. 


Page  513. 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  might, 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light, 

The  words  earth  and  might  are  given  on 
Dr.  Garnett's  authority  from  Shelley's  MS. 
In  the  Posthumous  Poems  the  second  of 
these  lines  does  not  appear,  and  light  stands 
in  place  of  might.  Air  appears  in  some 
editions  instead  of  earth. 

Page  515. 

Marenghi. 

In  part  given  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  part 
obtained  from  MS.  by  Dr.  Garnett,  and 
first  printed  by  Mr.  Rossetti. 

Page  520. 

And  their  mothers  look  pale  —  like  the  white 
shore 

A  MS.  of  Shelley  gives  the  reading 
"  death-white  shore." 

Page  520. 

Marry    Ruin,   thou    Tyrant,  and    God  be 
thy  g  uide 

A  MS.  of  Shelley  gives  "  Hell  "  in  place 
of  "  God." 

Page  526. 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright  : 

The  Harvard  College  MS.  reads  "  burn- 
ing bright."     So  "  The  Liberal." 

Page  526. 

As  I  must  on  thine, 

The  Harvard  MS.  gives  — 

"  As  I  most  die  on  thine  " 
(Mrs.  Shelley's  reading,  1839). 

Page  527. 

Of  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass, 

So  Harvard  College  MS.  "  Of  the  sweet 
flowers."  —  Mrs.  Shelley's  edition. 


Page  535. 

Leaf  by  leaf,  day  after  day, 

The  reading  by  instead  of  after  is  sup- 
plied by  the  MS.  in  Shelley's  handwriting 
in  the  Library  of  Harvard  College. 


for  by. 


Page  536. 

Cancelled  Passage. 

This  stanza  originally  printed  before  that 
beginning  "  Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  lep- 
rous scum  "  was  omitted  in  Mrs.  Shelley's 
edition.  It  is  cancelled  in  Shelley's  own 
copy  in  the  Harvard  College  MS. 

Page  537. 

One  deck  is  burst  up  by  the  waters  below, 

This  is  the  reading  of  the  Harvard 
College    MS.     Printed  editions   have  from 

Page  540. 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 

In  the  original  printed  text  we  have 
birds.     The  correction  is  from  Mrs.  Shelley. 

Page  542. 

Ode  to  Liberty. 

The  Harvard  College  MS.  in  Shelley's 
handwriting  is  decisive  as  to  the  punctua- 
tion of  the  first  two  lines. 

Page  546. 

Of  King  into  the  dust  '  or  write  it  there, 

"  King "  is  found  in  a  fragment  of  the 
rough  draft.  Shelley  and  Mrs.  Shelley  put 
four  asterisks  in  place  of  the  word. 

Page  547. 

Or  what  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor, 

So  Mrs.  Shelley.  In  Shelley's  edition 
"  O,"  is  printed  in  place  of  "  Or." 

Page  550. 

Its  mother 's  face  with  heaven's  collected  tears, 

The  Harvard  College  MS.  in  Mrs.  Shel 
ley's  handwriting  has  this  reading.  Later 
editions,  "  heaven-collected." 

Page  551. 

My  moon-like  flight,  thou  then  mayst  mark 

So  in  the  Posthumous  Poems.  "  Moon- 
light flight  "  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  later  editions. 

Page  556. 

The  Tower  of  Famine. 

It  is  uncertain  whether  the  following  note 
be    Mrs.    Shelley's    or    Shelley's :  "  At    Pisa 


NOTES. 


689 


there  still  exists  the  prison  of  Ugolino.  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  '  La  Torre  della  Fame  ' ; 
in  the  adjoining  building  the  galley-slaves 
axe  confined.  It  is  situated  on  the  Ponte  al 
Mare  on  the  Arno." 

Page  557. 

And  many  /ass  it  by  with  care. 'ess  tread, 

Mrs  Shelley  reads  passed.  The  emenda- 
tion is  Mr.  Rossetti's.     ,  * 

Page  y,j. 

Sonnet. 

Readings  in  this  Sonnet  are  derived  from 
a  copy  in  Shelley's  handwriting  sold  at  the 
Oilier  sale,  and  from  the  Harvard  College 
.MS. 

Page  565. 

And  the  weary  day  turned  to  his  rest, 

Mr.  Rossetti  suggests  "  her  rest." 

Page  567. 

Song. 

I  have  left  this  among  the  Poems  oi  1S21, 
but  it  seems  probable  that  it  was  earlier,  for 
in  the  Harvard  College  MS.  a  copy  made  by 
Mrs.  Shelley  is  dated  in  Shelley's  handwrit- 
ing '•  Pisa.  May  1820."  It  is  not  likely  that 
Shelley  erred,  even  though  his  entry  of  the 
date  of  transcription  may  have  been  made 
at  a  later  time  than  the  copy. 

Page  569. 

Sonnet:  Political  Greatness. 

Named  by  Shelley  in  the  Harvard  College 
MS.,  Sonnet,  To  the  Republic  of  Benevcnto. 

Page  569. 
Remembrance. 

In  a  MS.  copy  by  Shelley  followed  by  Mr. 
Forman.  we  read.  11.  5-S  — 

••  As  the  wood  when  leaves  are  shed. 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  fled. 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  dead.'' 
And,  1.  10  — 

•■  The  owlet  night  resumes  his  reign." 

Page  57S. 

Thro'  seas    and   winds,  cities  and  wilder- 
nesses, 

Mr.  Forman  suggests  lands  in  place  of 
winds  ;  or  should  we  read  woeds  ? 


Page  580. 
The  Boat  on  the  Serchio. 

Partly  given  by  Mrs.  Shelley  ;  additions 
and  corrections  made  from  Shelley's  MS.  by 
Mr.  Rossetti. 

Page  ;S2. 
Music. 

Given  first  in  Postliumous  Poems.  Two 
forms  are  printed  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  second 
edition  of  1S39. 

Page  582. 
Sonnet  to  Byron. 

The  sonnet  as  here  given  was  obtained 
from  MS.  by  Mr.  Rossetti. 

Under  a  heaven  of  cedar  boughs  ;  the  drouth 

I  adopt  Mr.  Forman's  suggestion  drouth 
instead  of  drought. 

Page  5S9. 

To  Jane :    The  Invitation. 

A  version  of  part  of  this  poem  and  part 
of  the  next  with  variations  of  text  is  given 
in  the  Posthumous  Poems. 

Page  5S9. 

Sit  by  thejireside  with  Sorrow. 

So  MS.:  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  collected  edi- 
tions '•  of  Sorrow.'' 

Page  5  12. 

Bare  woods,  -chose  branches  stain. 

Mr.  Rossetti  suggests  "strain"  for 
••stain.'' 

Page  604. 

Shall  hurl  you  into  dismal  Tartarus. 
••Hurl"  is  the    reading    of   the    Harvard 
College  MS.:  printed  editions,  "  haul.''     Cf. 
stanza  lxiii.  1.  1. 

Page  6oq. 

As  now.     I  wonder  at  thee,  son  of  Jove  ; 

The  full  stop  after  "now"  is  from  the 
Harvard  College  MS. 

Page  (110. 

The  s  ml  with  sweetness,  and  like  an  adeft 

Harvard    College    MS.    and    Posthumous 
Poems  read  — 
"  The  soul  with  sweetness,  as  of  an  adept." 


690 


NOTES. 


Page  612. 
Thou  dost  alone  the  veil  from  death  uplift. 

So  Harvard  College  MS.;  printed  editions 
"of  death." 

Page  612. 

In  truth,  and  Jove  covered  their  love  with 
joy, 

So  the  Harvard  College  MS.;  printed  edi- 
tions incorrectly  — 

"  In  truth,  and   Jove   covered  them  with 
love  and  joy." 

Page  612. 

And  steed-subduing  Castor,  heirs  of  fame. 

Mr.  Rossetti  corrected  the  error  "steel- 
subduing  "  in  previous  editions, 

Page  614. 

Tritogenia,  town-preserving  maid, 

Misprinted  in  Mrs.  Shelley's  editions 
''  Trilogenia."  So  on  p.  616  "  Althaea's  was 
misprinted  "  Athaea"  in  editions  previous  to 
Mr.  Forman's.  On  p.  618  "Papaiax"was 
erroneously  "  Papaiapax  "  until  Mr.  Forman 
set  it  right. 

Page  621. 

Ai!  ai!  I  have  escaped  the  Trojan  toils. 

In  Mrs.  Shelley's  editions,  "  Ay !  ay ! "  Cor- 
rected by  Mr.  Rossetti. 

Page  621. 

The  ravin  is  ready  on  every  side, 

In  Mrs.  Shelley's  editions,  "  The  ravine." 
Corrected  by  Mr.  Rossetti. 

Page  621. 

As  would  contain  ten  amphora,  and  bound 
it 

In  Mrs.  Shelley's  editions,  "four  am- 
phorae." The  correction  was  suggested  by 
Mr.  Swinburne. 

Page  625. 

Semichorus  I.      We  are  too  far, 

In  Mrs.  Shelley's  editions,  "too  few". 
Corrected  by  Mr.  Rossetti. 

Page  628. 
From  his  struck  thigh  stains  her  white  navel 


The  MS.  of  Shelley  has  "her"  for  "his," 
in  this  and  the  following  line.  With  Mr. 
Rossetti  I  change  it  in  its  first  occurrence  to 
"  his." 

Page  647. 

The  trunks  are  crushed  and  shattered 

Mr.  Rossetti  reads  "scattered." 

#  Page  653. 

A  Dialogue. 

The  title  is  from  Shelley's  MS.,  where 
the  poem  is  given  in  a  later  and  revised 
text.  I  introduce  from  the  MS.  the  cor- 
rection "o'er  Eternity's  vale"  (in  place  of 
"  on  ").     The  date  given  is  1809. 

Page  654. 

To  the  Moonbeam. 

Like  "  A  Dialogue,"  this  is  given  both  in 
Hogg's  "  Life  of  Shelley "  (in  a  letter  of 
17th  May,  181 1)  and  with  a  revised  text 
in  a  MS.  of  later  date.  In  the  MS.  the 
date  23d  September,  1809  is  given.  I  cor- 
rect from  the  MS.  the  last  line  of  the  poem. 

Page  654. 
The  Solitary. 
Dated  1810  in  Shelley's  MS. 

Page  654. 

To  Death. 

The  title  is  from  Shelley's  MS.,  where  it 
appears  with  a  revised  text.  I  correct  the 
word  "murders"  (1.  10)  in  Hogg's  text  to 
"  murderer,"  MS.  Hogg  says  the  poem  was 
written  at  Oxford  (1810).  The  MS.  gives 
twenty  additional  lines. 

Page  655. 

Love's  Rose. 

The  title  is  Mr.  Rossetti's.  The  poem 
appears  in  a  revised  text  in  Shelley's  MS., 
with  the  date  1810.  The  second  line, 
hitherto  given  erroneously,  I  correct  from 
the  MS. 

Page  655. 

Eyes:  A  Fragment. 

This  is  from  a  MS.  copied  by  Mr.  Gar- 
nett.  A  MS.  of  later  date  gives  the  com- 
plete poem  —  five  eight-lined  stanzas.  The 
date  in  the  later  MS.  is  1S10.  I  correct 
lighten  (1.  1  st.  2)  to  light  from  this  MS. 


ATOT£S. 


691 


Page  656. 
Poems  from  St.  In<ync. 

Following  Mr.  Rossetti's  example  I 
supply  a  title  for  each  of  these  poems. 

Page  666. 

Stanza  from  a  Translation,  etc. 

The  entire  poem  is  given  in  a  later  MS. 

Page  667. 

Bigotry's  Victim. 

From  Hogg's  "  Life  of  Shelley,"  given  in 
a  letter  dated  28th  April,  181 1.  Dated 
18 10  in  a  later  revised  MS. 

Page  667. 

On  an  Icicle,  etc. 

The  title  is  from  Shelley's  MS.,  where 
the  poem  (given  in  a  revised  text)  is  dated 
1S09.  It  is  given  also  in  a  letter  to  Hogg, 
dated  6th  January,  181 1,  where  Shelley  says 
that  he  had  been  most  of  the  previous  night 
pacing  a  churchyard. 

Page  669. 

To  Mary,  who  Died  in  this  Opinion. 

From  a  letter  to  Miss  Hitchener,  2^d 
November,   181 1.     Mr.  Esdaile's    MS.  con 


tains  three  poems  "  To  Mary,"  with  an 
Advertisement  prefixed,  and  one  "  To  the 
Lover  of  Mary."  The  date  of  these  is 
November,  18 10.  They  are  selected,  Shelley 
says,  from  many  written  during  three  weeks 
of  an  entrancement  caused  by  hearing  Mary's 
story.  Probably  the  poem  here  printed  is 
one  of  those  from  among  which  he  made  his 
later  selection. 

Page  669. 

A  Tale  of  Society,  etc. 

The  title  is  from  Shelley's  MS.,  where 
the  poem  appears  in  a  later  text,  and  extends 
to  ten  stanzas.  The  present  text  is  from  a 
letter  to  Miss  Hitchener,  7th  January,  1812. 
I  made  a  few  corrections  from  the  later  MS. 

Page  671. 

To  the  Republicans  of  North  America. 

The  title  is  from  Shelley's  MS.;  the  text, 
from  a  letter  to  Miss  Hitchener,  dated  14th 
February,  1812.  The  later  MS.  contains  an 
additional  stanza.  I  make  one  or  two  cor- 
rections of  text  from  this  MS. 

Page  671. 

To  Harriet:  A  Fragment. 

The  poem  from  which  this  fragment  is 
taken  will  be  found  in  the  "  Life  of  Shelley," 
by  Edward  Dowden,  vol.  i.  pp.  286-288. 


A   LIST   OF   SHELLEY'S   PRINCIPAL 
WRITINGS.1 


i.  Zastrozzi,  A  Romance.  By  P.  B.  S., 
London  :  Printed  for  G.  Wilkie  and  J. 
Robinson,  57   Paternoster  Row,  1S10. 

2.  Original  Poetry.  By  Victor  and  Cazire, 
Worthing:  Phillips.  8vo,  pp.  64.  No  copy 
known. 

3.  Posthumous  Fragments  of  Margaret 
Nicholson;  being  Poems  found  amongst 
the  papers  of  that  noted  female  who  at- 
tempted the  life  of  the  King  in  1786. 
Edited  by  John  Fitzvictor.  Oxford  : 
Printed  and  Sold  by  J.  Munday,  1S10. 

6.  St.  Irvyne  ;  or,  The  Rosicrucian  :  A 
Romance.  By  A  Gentleman  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford.  London  :  Printed  for 
J.  J.  Stockdale,  41  Pall  Mall,  181 1. 

7.  An  Essay  on  Love.  In  a  letter  to 
Godwin,  Keswick,  16th  January,  1S12, 
Shelley  speaks  of  "  the  '  Essay  on  Love,'  a 
little  poem"  —  as  if  a  printed  work.  No 
copy  is  known. 

8.  Leonora.  This  was  a  novel  said  to 
have  been  written  in  conjunction  with  T.  J. 
Hogg.  The  printing  is  said  to  have  been 
stopped  in  consequence  of  the  expulsion  of 
Shelley  and  Hogg  from  Oxford.  Never 
issued. 

9.  The  necessity  of  Atheism.  Worthing  : 
Printed  by  E.  and  W.  Phillips.  Sold  in 
London  and  Oxford. 

10.  A  Poetical  Essay  on  the  Existing 
State  of  Things.  By  a  Gentleman  of  the 
University  of  Oxford,  For  assisting  to 
maintain  in  Prison  Mr.  Peter  Finnerty,  im- 
prisoned for  a  libel.  London  :  Sold  by 
B.  Crosby  and  Co.,  and  all  ofcher  book- 
sellers, 1 81 1.  This  is  advertised  in  the 
Oxford  Herald  for  2d  March,  181 1,  and 
there  is  strong  reason  to  believe  that  it  was 
by  Shelley.     No  copy  is  known. 


11.  Lines  on  a  Fete  at  Carlton  House  —  a 
poem  of  about  fifty  lines  said  to  have  been 
printed,  1S11.  No  copy  is  known,  but  a 
fragment  has  been  orally  preserved. 

12.  A  Satire,  181 1  ;  supposed  to  have  been 
printed.    No  copy  known  ;  the  title  unknown. 

13.  An  Address  to  the  Irish  People.  By 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.     Dublin,  1S12. 

14.  Proposals  for  an  Association  of  those 
Philanthropists,  who,  convinced  of  the  in- 
adequacy of  the  moral  and  political  state  of 
Ireland  to  produce  benefits  which  are  never 
theless  attainable,  are  willing  to  unite  to 
accomplish  its  regeneration.  By  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley.  Dublin  :  Printed  by  I. 
Eton,  Winetavern  Street  (1S12). 

15.  Declaration  of  Rights  —  a  broadside 
printed  in  Dublin,  1812, 

16.  The  Devil's  Walk;  a  Ballad  —  A 
broadside,  1812. 

17.  A  Letter  to  Lord  Ellenborough,  oc- 
casioned by  the  sentence  which  he  passed  on 
Mr.  D.  I.  Eaton,  as  publisher  of  the  Third 
Part  of  Paine's  "  Age  of  Reason  "  (Printed 
by  Syle  at  Barnstaple,  1812.) 

18.  Queen  Mab;  a  Philosophical  Poem: 
with  Notes  by  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
London  :  Printed  by  P.  B.  Shelley,  23 
Chapel  Street,  Grosvenor  Square,  1813. 
The  poem  was  printed  and  published  by 
W.  Clark,  201  Strand,  London,  in  1821,  and 
was  reissued  in  1S22  by  R.  Carlile,  55  Fleet 
Street.  In  182 1  it  was  reprinted  in  New 
York  in  duodecimo  form. 

19.  A  Vindication  of  Natural  Diet. 
Being  one  of  a  Series  of  Notes  to  Queen 
Mab,  a  Philosophical  Poem.  London  : 
Printed  for  J.  Callow,  medical  bookseller, 
Crown  Court.  Princes  Street,  Soho,  by  Smith 
and  Davy,  Queen  Street,  Seven  Dials,  1813. 


1  For  fuller  information  the  reader  should  consult  the  volume  from  which  mainly  this  list  has  been 
drawn  up:  "The  Shelley  Library:  An  Essay  in  Bibliography  by  H.  Buxton  Forman.  Part  I.  fall 
published  as  yet].     London:  Reeves  and  Turner,  1886." 


692 


LIST   OF  SHELLEY'S  PR  IXC  I  PAL    WRITINGS. 


693 


20.  A  Refutation  of  Deism :  in  a  Dia- 
logue. London:  Printed  by  Schulze  and 
Dean.  13  Poland  Street.  1814. 

21.  Review  of  Hogg's  "  Memoirs  of 
Prince  Alexy  Haimatotf,"  contributed  to 
the  Critical  Rwieiv,  December,  1S14. 

22.  Alastor;  or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude: 
and  other  Poems.  By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
London :  Printed  for  Baldwin,  Craddock, 
and  Joy,  Paternoster  Row;  and  Carpenter 
and  Son.  Old  Bond  Street  :  by  S.  Hamilton, 
Weybridge.  Surrey,  1S10. 

23.  A  Proposal  for  Putting  Reform  to 
the  Vote  throughout  the  Kingdom.  By  the 
Hermit  of  Marlow.  London:  Printed  for 
C.  and  J.  Oilier.  3  Welbeck  Street,  Cavendish 
Square,  by  C.  H.  Reynell,  21  Piccadilly,  181  7. 

24.  An  Address  to  the  People  on  the 
Death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte.  By  the 
Hermit  of  Marlow.  1S17.  [The  motto  "  We 
pity  the  Plumage,  but  forget  the  Dying 
Bird"  has  been  mistaken  for  the  title. J 
Known  only  through  a  reprint  of  Thomas 
Rodd  about  1S43. 

25.  History  of  a  Six  Weeks'  Tour  through 
a  part  of  France,  Switzerland,  Germany, 
and  Holland  :  with  letters  descriptive  of  a 
Sail  round  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  of  the 
Glaciers  of  Chamouni.  London  :  Published 
bv  T.  Hookham  jun..  Old  Bond  Street  :  and 
C.  and  J.  Oilier.  Welbeck  Street,  181 7. 
This  is  in  the  main  by  Mary  Shelley,  with 
certain  contributions  from  Shelley's  pen. 

20.  Laon  and  Cythna;  or,  the  Revolution 
of  the  Golden  City:  A  Vision  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century.  In  the  Stanza  of  Spenser. 
By  Percy  B.  Shelley.  London  :  Printed  for 
Sherwood.  Xeelv,  and  lones.  Paternoster 
Row;  and  C.  and  J.  Oilier.  Welbeck  Street: 
bv  B.  M'Millan.  Bow  Street,  Covent  Garden, 
1S1S. 

This  by  alterations,  cancel-leaves,  and  a 
fresh  title  was  altered  into 

27.  The  Revolt  of  Islam  :  a  Poem,  in 
twelve  cantos.  By  Percy  Bvsshe  Shelley. 
London:  Printed  for  C.  and  J.  Oilier.  Wel- 
beck Street,  by  B.  M'Millan,  Bow  Street. 
Covent  Garden.  1S1S.  Some  few  copies  are 
dated  1S17.  In  1820  the  remainder  was  is- 
sued with  a  new  title-page  and  the  imprint 
"  London  :  Printed  for  John  Brooks.  421 
Oxford  Street,  1820."  Some  copies  of  this 
issue  give  the  -  Laon  and  Cythna  "  text. 

2S.  Rosalind  and  Helen,  a  Modern 
Eclogue  ;  with  ( >ther  Poems  :  by  Percy 
B>sshe  Shelley.  London:  Printed  for  C. 
and  J.  Oilier,  Vere  Street,  Bond  Street, 
181  1. 

29.  The  Cenci.  A  Tragedy,  in  Five 
Acts.     By  Percy  B.  Shelley.    Italy  :  Printed 


for  C.  and  J.  Oilier,  Vere  Street,  Bond  Street, 
London,  1S19. 

The  Cenci  appeared  in  a  second  edition, 
London  :  C.  and  J.  Oilier,  1821. 

30.  Prometheus  Unbound.  A  LyricaV 
Drama  in  Four  Acts,  with  other  Poems. 
By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  London  :  C.  and 
J.  Oilier,  Vere  Street.  Bond  Street,  1S20. 

31.  CEdipus  Tyrannus  ;  or  Swellfoot  the 
Tyrant.  A  Tragedy.  In  Two  Acts.  Trans- 
lated from  the  Original  Doric.  London: 
Published  for  the  Author,  by  J.  Johnston, 
98  Cheapside;  and  sold  by  all  booksellers, 
1820. 

32.  Epipsychidion.  Verses  addressed  to 
the    Xoble  and    Unfortunate    Lady   Emilia 

V ,    now    imprisoned    in    the    Convent 

of  -.     London:  C.  and  J.  Oilier,  Vere 

Street,  Bond  Street,  1821. 

33.  Adonais.  An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of 
John  Keats,  Author  of  Endymion,  Hyperion, 
etc.  By  Percy  B.  Shelley.  Pisa,  with  the 
Types  of  Didot,  1S21.  The  second  edition 
was  brought  out  through  the  zeal  ot  Arthur 
Hallam  and  the  late  Lord  Houghton  at 
Cambridge.  Printed  by  W.  Metcalfe,  and 
sold  bv  Messrs.  Gee  and  Bridges,  Market 
Hill,  1829. 

34.  Hellas.  A  Lyrical  Drama.  By  Percy 
B.  Shelley.  London  :  Charles  and  James 
Oilier,  Vere  Street,  Bond  Street,  1822.  This 
was  the  last  work  issued  during  Shellev's 
life. 

35.  Posthumous  Poems  of  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley.  London,  1824  :  Printed  for  John 
and  Henry  L.  Hunt,  Tavistock  Street, 
Covent  Garden.     [Edited  by  Mary  Shelley.] 

36.  The  Masque  of  Anarchy.  A  Poem. 
By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  Now  First  Pur> 
lished.  with  a  Preface  by  Leigh  Hunt.  Lon- 
don :  Edward  Moxon.  64  New  Bond  Stre3t, 
1S32. 

^7.  The  Shelley  Papers  :  Memoir  of 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  By  T.  Medwin, 
Esq..  and  Original  Poems  and  Papers  by 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  Now  First  Collected. 
London  :  Whittaker,  Treacher,  and  Co., 
1833. 

38.  Essavs,  Letters  from  Abroad.  Trans- 
lations, and  Fragments.  By  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley.  Edited  by  Mrs.  Shelley.  In  Two 
Volumes.  London  :  Edward  Moxon,  Dover 
Street.  1840. 

39.  Relics  of  Shelley.  Edited  by  Richard 
Garnett.  London  :  Edward  Moxon  and 
Co..  Dover  Street.  1802. 

40  The  D;vmon  of  the  World.  By  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley.  'The  First  Part  as  pub- 
lished in  1816  with  Alastor.  The  Second 
Part,    Deciphered   and   now    First    Printed 


694 


LIST   OF  SHELLEY'S  PRLNCIPAL    WRITINGS. 


from  his  own  Manuscript  Revision  and 
Interpolations  in  the  Newly  Discovered 
Copy  of  Queen  Mab.  London  :  Privately 
printed  by  H.  Buxton  Forman,  38  Marlbo- 
rough Hill,  1876. 

41.  Notes  on  Sculptures  in  Rome  and 
Florence:  Together  with  a  Lucianic  Frag- 
ment and  a  Criticism  on  Peacock's  "  Rhodo- 
daphne."  By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  Ed- 
ited by  Harry  Buxton  Forman.  London : 
Printed  for  Private  Distribution,  1879. 

A  notice  of  Shelley's  unpublished  prose 
work,  "  A  Philosophical  View  of  Reform 
(1819),  will  be  found  in  "Transcripts  and 
Studies,"  by  Edward  Dowden,  1888,  pp. 
41-74. 


Some  account  of  early  poems,  still  un- 
I  published,  will  be  found  in  "  The  Life  of 
j  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,"  by  Edward  Dowden, 
j  1886,  vol.  i.  pp.  344-349  ;  and  poems,  or 
i  passages  from  poems,  in  the  unpublished 
j  MS.  volume  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Esdaile 
I  will  be  found  in  the  same  work,  vol.  i.  pp. 
j  268, 270-274,  286-288, 294, 298-299,  317-318, 
I   347-348,  376,  385-386>  4°4,  4I3-4I4- 

One  poem,  "  The  Wandering  Jew's  Solilo- 

|   quy,"  from  the  same  MS.  volume  is  printed 

j   in  the  Shelley  Society's  Publications,  Second 

Series,    No.    12.      "The    Wandering   Jew," 

edited    by     Bertram     Dobell     (1887),    pp. 

69-70. 


ORDER   OF   POEMS. 


In  Editions  published  during  Shelley's  Lifetime. 


It  seems  right  to  put  it  in  the  reader's 
power  to  place  certain  poems  in  the  order 
in  which  they  originally  appeared  with 
Shelley's  approval. 

Alastor  was  followed  in  the  volume  of  1816 

by- 
The   Stanzas  beginning  "  Oh  !   there   are 

spirits  in  the  air." 
Stanzas,  April  1814. 
Mutability. 
Stanzas  beginning  "  The  pale,  the   cold, 

and  the  moony  smile." 
A  Summer  Evening  Churchyard. 
Sonnet :  To  Wordsworth. 
Sonnet :  Feelings  of  a  Republican. 
Superstition  (a  fragment  of  Queen  Mab). 
Sonnet  from  the  Italian  of  Dante. 
Sonnet :   Translated   from   the  Greek   of 

Moschus. 
The  Daemon  of  the  World :  Part  I. 

Rosalind  and  Helen  was  followed  in    the 
rolume  of  18 1 9  by  — 


Lines  Written  among  the  Euganeaa  Hills. 
Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty. 
Sonnet  :  Ozymandias. 

Prometheus  Unbound  was  followed  in  th« 

volume  of  1820  by  — 
The  Sensitive  Plant. 
A  Vision  of  the  Sea. 
Ode  to  Heaven. 
An  Exhortation. 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind. 
An    Ode:    To   the   Assertors  of  Liberty 

(named   originaliy    "  An    Ode    written 

October  18 19,  before  the  Spaniards  had 

recovered  their  Liberty"). 
The  Cloud. 
To  a  Skylark. 
Ode  to  Liberty. 


Hellas  was  followed  in  the  volume  of'  1822 
by- 
Lines   written   on   hearing   the    News  of 
the  Death  of  Napoleon. 


69s 


INDEX  TO   THE   POEMS. 


AJDONAIS,  433. 

Lines  written  for,  433. 

Adonis,  Elegy  on  the  Death  of,  637. 
Alastor  ;  or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude,  104. 
Allegory,  An,  557. 
Ambushed  Dangers,  583. 
Anarchy,  The  Mask  of,  355. 

Cancelled  Stanza,  531. 

Anthem,  A  New  National,  522. 
Apennines,  Passage  of  the,  506. 
Apollo,  Hymn  of,  549. 
Appeal  to  Silence,  518. 
Arabic,  From  the,  566. 
Arethusa,  548. 
Assertors  of  Liberty,  To  the,  522. 

Cancelled  Stanza,  523. 

Athanase,  Prince,  226. 
Atlas,  The  Witch  of,  381. 
Autumn :  A  Dirge,  555. 
Awakener,  The,  583. 
Aziola,  The,  569. 

Balloon,  To  a,  681. 

Bereavement,  659. 

Bigotry's  Victim,  667. 

Bion,  Elegy  on  the  Death  of,  628. 

Bion,    From:    Fragment   of  the    Elegy   on   the 

Death  of  Adonis,  627. 
Birth  of  Pleasure,  The,  528. 
Blanc,  Mont,  492. 

Cancelled  Passage  of,  495. 

Boat  on  the  Serchio,  The,  580. 

Bonaparte,  Feelings  of  a  Republican  on  the  Fall 

of,  488. 
Bottles,  on  Launching,  611. 
Bracknell,  Stanza  written  at,  485. 
Bridal  Song,  A,  571. 

Another  Version,  571. 

Another  Version,  572. 

Buona  Notte,  559. 
Byron,  Sonnet  to,  582. 
To  (Fragment),  518. 

Caldhron's  Cisma  d'Inglaterra,  .70. 

Magico  Prodigioso,  Scenes  from,  632. 

Carlton  House,  On  a  Fete  at,  668. 
Cascine,  Pine  Forest  of  the,  677. 
Castlereagh  Administration,  Lines  written   dur- 
ing the,  520. 
Castor  and  Pollux,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  612. 
Cat,  Verses  on  a,  652. 

Cavalcanti,  Sonnet  from  the  Italian  of,  632. 
— -  Dante  to  Guido,  629. 


Cenci,  The,  308. 

Chamouni,  Lines  written  in  the  Vale  of,  492.         1 

Charles  the  First,  461. 

Circumstance,  627. 

Cisma  d'Inglaterra,  Calderon's,  676. 

Cloud-Chariot,  A,  503. 

Cloud,  The,  540. 

Coleridge,  To,  488. 

Consequence,  562. 

Constantia,  To,  499. 

To,  Singing,  498. 

Convito,  First  Canzone  of  the,  630. 

Critic,  Lines  to  a,  504. 

Cyclops  of  Euripides,  The,  615. 

Cym  Elan,  1812 :  The  Retrospect,  678. 

D^mon  of  the  World,  The,  94. 

Dante,  Sonnet  from  the  Italian  of,  629. 

Adapted  from  a  Sonnet  in  the  Vita  Nuova, 

632. 

Sonnet,  to  Guido  Cavalcanti,  629. 

— —  The  First  Canzone  of  the  Convito,  630. 
Matilda     gathering      Flowers     (Purgatorio 

xxvii.  1-51),  631. 

Ugolino  (Inferno  xxxiii.  22-75),  675- 

Death  :   "  Death  is  here  and  death  is  there,"  555. 
' '  They  die  —  the  dead  ret arn  not  —  Misery ,  ' 

502. 
Death,  On,  486. 
Death,  To,  654. 

Dejection,  Stanzas  written  in,  513. 
Deserts  of  Sleep,  The,  562. 
Despair,  663. 

Devil's  Waik,  The  :  A  Ballad,  671. 
Dialogue  (Death  and  Mortal) :   '   For  my  dagger 

is  bathed  in  the  blood  of  the  brave,"  653. 
Dirge,  A,  579,  592- 

for  the  Year,  564. 

Drama,  Fragments  of  an  Unfinished,  456. 
Drowned  Lover,  The,  659. 

Earth,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  613. 
Edward  Williams,  To,  570. 
Emilia  Viviani,  To,  409,  566. 
Emmet's  Grave,  On  Robert,  678. 
England  in  1819,  522. 
England,  To  the  People  of,  521. 

To  the  Men  of,  520. 

Epigrams,  from  the  Greek,  627. 
Epipsychidion,  409. 

I  ragments  connected  with,  419. 

Epitaph,  593. 
Epitaphium,  652. 


697 


*# 


INDEX   TO    THE  POEMS. 


Epithalamium,  571,  662. 

Fragments :  — 

Euganean  Hills,  Lines  written  maong  the,  507. 

Omens,  652. 

Euripides,  The  Cyclops  of,  6x5. 

On  Keats,  582. 

Evening  :   Ponte  a  Mare,  Pisa,  580. 

"  O  Thou  Immortal  Deity,"  584. 

To  Harriet,  676. 

Peace  surrounding  Life,  583. 

Exhortation,  An,  525. 

Poetry  and  Music,  529. 

Eyes :  A  Fragment,  655. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day,  677. 

Rain,  583. 

Face,  A,  563. 

Rain  and  Wind,  530. 

Faded  Violet,  On  a,  507. 

Reminiscence  and  Desire,  529. 

Falsehood  and  Vice,  61. 

Rome  and  Nature,  530. 

False  Laurels  and  True,  584. 

Satan  at  Large,  504. 

Famine,  The  Tower  of,  556. 

Satire  on  Satire,  558. 

Farewell  to  North  Devon,  681. 

Song  of  the  Furies,  521. 

Faust,  Scenes  from,  643. 

The  Awakener,  583. 

Feelings  of  a  Republican  on  the  Fall  of  Bona- 

The Deserts  of  Sleep,  562. 

parte,  488. 

The  Fight  was  o'er,  504. 

Fellowship  of  Souls,  529. 

"  The  Lady  of  the  South,"  583. 

Fete  at  Carlton  House  ;  Fragment  on  a,  678. 

"  The  rude  Wind  is  singing,"  584. 

"*  Fierce  Beasts,"  519. 

The  Stream's  Margin,  519. 

Fiordispina,  561. 

The  Tomb  of  Memory,  529. 

First  Canzone  of  the  Convito,  The,  630. 

Thoughts  in  Solitude,  504. 

"  Follow  "  (Fragment),  528. 

To  Byron,  518. 

Forebodings,  529. 

To  Harriet,  671. 

Fragment  of  a  Sonnet  —  To  Harriet,  680. 

To  Italy,  530. 

Fragment    of    a   Sonnet  —  Farewell    to    North 

To  Music,  499 

Devon,  681. 

To  One  freed  from  Prison,  503. 

Fragment  of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dion,  628. 

To  One  Singing,  499. 

Fragment,  supposed  to  be  an  Epithalamium  of 

To  the  Moon,  593. 

Francis  Ravaillac  and  Charlotte  Corday,  662. 

To  the  People  of  England,  521. 

Fragment :   "  Yes,  all  is  past,"  664. 

Unrisen  Splendor,  563. 

Fragments  of  an  unfinished  Drama,  456. 

Unsatisfied  Desire,  504. 
Vine  amid  Ruins,  The,  519. 

Fragments :  — 

A  Cloud-Chariot,  503. 

Visitations  of  Calm  Thoughts,  529. 

Adapted  from  the  Vita  Nuovaof  Dante,  632. 

"  Wake  the  Serpent  not,"  530. 

A  Face,  563. 

Weariness,  563. 

"  A  gentle  Story  of  two  Lovers  young,"  528. 

"  What  Men  gain  fairly,"  521. 

"  Alas  !  this  is  not  what  I  thought  Life  was," 

Wine  of  Eglantine,  530. 

563- 

Fugitives,  The,  566. 

A  Lost  Leader,  519, 

Furies,  Song  of  the,  529. 

Ambushed  Dangers,  583. 

"  And  that  I  walk  thus  proudly  crowned," 

"Gather,  0  gather,"  523. 

584. 

Gentle  Story,  A,  528. 

Appeal  to  Silence,  518. 

Ginevra,  576. 

A  Roman's  Chamber,  530. 

Gisborne,  Letter  to  Maria,  376. 

A  Tale  Untold,  530. 

Godwin,  On  Fanny,  502. 

A  Wanderer,  583. 

To  Mary  Wol'lstonecraft,  485. 

Consequence,  562. 

Goethe's  Faust,  Scenes  from,  643. 

False  Laurels  and  True,  584. 

Good  Night,  558. 

Fellowship  of  Souls,  529. 

"  Great  Spirit,"  584. 

Fiordispina,  561. 

"  Follow  to  the  deep  wood's  Weeds,"  528. 

Guitar,  With  a,  591. 

Forebodings,  529. 

Harriet,  To :  A  Fragment,  671,  680. 

From  the  Wandering  Jew,  653. 

Hate-Song,  A,  504. 
Heaven,  Ode  to,  523. 

"  Great  Spirit,"  584. 

Helen  and  Henry,  495. 

Helen  and  Henry,  495. 

Home,  495. 

Helen,  Rosalind  and,  232. 

Hope,  Fear,  and  Doubt,  563. 

Helena,  Kissing,  627. 

"  I  Faint,  I  Perish,  with  my  Love,"  583. 

Hellas,  434. 

"  I  would  not  be  a  King,  576. 

Prologue  to,  573. 

Love  Immortal,  504. 

Fragments  written  for,  576. 

Love's  Atmosphere,  528. 

Home,  495. 

Love  the  Universe,  528. 

Homer:   Hymn  to  Castor  and  Pollux,  612. 

Marenghi,  515. 

to  the  Earth  :   Mother  of  All,  613. 

"  Methought  I  was  a  Billow  in  the  Crowd," 

to  Mercury,  598. 

583. 

to  Minerva,  614. 

Milton's  Spirit,  563. 

Of  an  Unfinished  Drama,  456. 

to  the  Moon,  612. 

to  the  Sun,  613. 

Of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Adonis,  627. 

to  Venus,  614. 

Of  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Bion,  628. 

Hope,  Fear,  and  Doubt,  563. 

INDEX   TO    THE  POEMS. 


699 


Horologium,  652. 
Hymn  of  Apollo,  549. 

of  Pan,  550. 

to  Intellectual  Beauty,  491. 

Ianthk,  To,  676. 

Icicle  that  clung  to  the   Grass   of  a  Grave,  On 

an,  067. 
Imitation,  An:    From  the  Arabic,  566. 
Indian  Serenade,  The,- 526;  Cancelled  Passage 

of,  526. 
In  Horologium,  652. 
Intellectual  Beauty,  Hymn  to,  491. 
Imitation,  The,  589. 
Ireland,  To,  671,  676. 
Islam,  The  Revolt  of,  117. 
Isle,  The,  593. 
Italy,  To,  530. 


The  Invitation,  589. 

The  Recollection,  5(90. 

With  a  Guitar,  591. 

"  The  keen  stars  were  twinkling,"  592. 
Julian  and  Maddalo,  24S. 

Cancelled  lines,  258. 

Cancelled  fragments  of,  258. 

"  Jura,  on  the  dark  heights  of,"  656. 

Keats,  On,  582. 
Kissing  Helena,  627. 

Lady  of  the  South,  The,  583. 

Lament,  A,  569. 

Lechlade,  Gloucestershire,  A  Summer  Evening 
Churchyard  at,  487. 

Lerici,  Bay  of,  Lines  written  in  the,  592. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  On  the  Medusa  of,  527. 

Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne,  376. 

Liberty,  555;   Odes  to,  542. 

Life,  The  Triumph  of,  474. 

Cancelled  passage,  485. 

Lines  :   "  Far,  far  away,  0  ye,"  565. 

"  If  I  walk  in  autumn's  even, 

"  That  time  is  dead  for  ever,  cnua,"  502. 

"  The  cold  earth  slept  below,"  489. 

to  a  Critic,  504. 

to  a  Reviewer,  557. 

"  We  meet  not  as  we  parted,"  593. 

"  When  the  Lamp  is  shattered,"  5S8. 

written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,  507. 

written  during  the  Castlereagh  Administra- 
tion, 520. 

written  for  Julian  and  Maddalo,  258. 

written  for  Prometheus  Unbound,  530. 

written  for  Indian  Serenade,  526. 

written  for  Ode  to  Liberty,  547. 

written  for  Adonais,  433. 

written  for  Hellas,  576. 

written  for  Poem  to  William  Shelley,  502. 

written  in  the  Bay  of  Lerici,  592. 

written  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  492. 

written  on  hearing  the  News  of  the  Death 

of  Napoleon,  568. 

London,  On  Leaving  for  Wales,  681. 

Lord  Chancellor,  To  the,  499. 

Lost  Leader,  A,  519. 

Love,  66S. 

Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  Fear,  572. 

Love  Immortal,  504. 


,  cMd,' 


Lover,  The  Drowned,  659. 

Love's  Atn\osphere,  528. 

Love's  Philosophy,  528. 

Love's  Rose,  655. 

Love  the  Universe,  528. 

Lyric  to  the  Moon,  Variation  of  the,  530. 

Mab,  Queen,  27. 

Maddalo,  Julian  and,  248. 

Magico  Brodigioso,  The,  of  Calderon,  632. 

Cancelled  lines,  25S. 

Magnetic  Lady  to  her  Patient,  The,  588. 

Marenghi,  515. 

Margaret  Nicholson.  See  Posthumous  Frag- 
ments of. 

Maria  Gisborne,  Letter  to,  376. 

Marianne's  Dream,  496. 

Marseillaise  Hymn,  Stanza  from  a  Translation 
of  the,  666. 

Mary,  To  (Dedication),  122. 

Mary,  To  (Answer  to  Objection),  381. 

Mary,  To,  who  died  in  this  Opinion,  669. 

Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin,  To,  4X5. 

Mask  of  Anarchy,  355 ;  Cancelled  Stanza  of,  531. 

Matilda  gathering  Flowers,  631. 

May  Day  Night  (Faust),  645. 

Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  527. 

Melody  to  a  Scene  of  Former  Times,  666. 

Memory,  The  Tomb  of,  529. 

Men  of  England,  Song  to  the,  520. 

Mercury,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  598. 

"  Mighty  Eagle,"  499. 

Milton's  Spirit,  563. 

Minerva,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  614. 

Misery,  To,  512. 

Moonbeam,  To  the,  654. 

Moon,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  612. 

The  Waning,  555. 

To  the,  555,  593,  663. 

Mont  Blanc,  492. 

Moschus,  From  the  Greek  of,  628,  629. 

Music,  5,82. 

Music,  To,  499;  Another  Fragment  to  Music, 
499. 

Mutability,  "we  are  as  clouds,"  486. 

"  The  Flower  that  Smiles  To-day,"  568. 

Naples,  Ode  to,  552. 

Napoleon,     Lines    written    on    hearing    of    the 

Death  of,  5C8. 
National  Anthem,  A  New,  522. 
Night,  To,  5115^ 

Nightingale,  The  Woodman  and  the,  513. 
Nile,  To  the.  506. 
North  America,  To  the  Republicans  of,  671. 

Ode  to  Heaven,  523. 

to  Liberty,  542  ;  Cancelled  Passage  to,  547. 

To  the  Assertors  of   Liberty,  522. 

Cancelled  Stanza,  523. 

To  Naples,  552. 

to  the  West  Wind,  524, 

Q-Mipus   Tyrannus ;    or    Swellfoot    the    Tyrant, 

304- 
Omens,  A  Fragment,  652. 
On  a  Faded  Violet,  507. 
On  Death:  "The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony 

smile,"  486. 
One  Singing,  To,  499. 
Orpheus,  559. 


yoo 


INDEX   TO    THE  POEMS. 


Otho,  502  ;  Fragments  supposed  to  be  parts  of, 

"  O  world  !  O  life  !  O  time,"  A  Lament,  569. 
Ozymandias,  505. 

Pan,  Echo,  and  the  Satyr,  629. 

Hymn  of,  550. 

Passage  of  the  Apennines,  506. 
Past,  The,  507. 
Peace  surrounding  Life,  583. 
People  of  England,  To  the,  521. 
Peter  Bell  the  Third,  361. 
Plant,  The  Sensitive,  531,  536. 
Plato,  Spirit  of,  627. 

From  —  To  Stella,  627. 

Kissing  Helena,  627. 

Pleasure,  The  Birth  of,  528. 

Poems  from  St.  Irvyne,  or  the  Rosicrucian,  656. 
Poems  to  Jane :  The  Invitation,  589. 

"  The  keen  Stars  were  twinkling,"  592. 
The  Recollection,  590. 
With  a  Guitar,  591. 

to  Mary  Shelley  —  (1)  527;  (2)  527. 

to  William  Shelley,  501,  526,  527. 

Poetry  and  Music,  529. 

Political  Characters  of  1819,  Similes  for  two,  521. 

Greatness,  569. 

Ponte  a  Mare,  Pisa,  Evening,  5S0. 
Posthumous  Fragments,  of  Margaret  Nicholson, 
660. 

Despair,  663. 

Melody  to  a  Scene  of  Former  Times,  666. 

The  Spectral  Horseman,  665. 

"'Tis   midnight   now  —  athwart  the   murky 

air,"  662. 
"Yes!    all    is    past  —  swift    time    has    fled 
away,"  664. 
Prince  Athanase,  226. 
Prison,  To  one  freed  from,  503. 
Prologue  to  Hellas,  573. 
Prologue  in  Heaven  (Faust),  643. 
Prometheus,  Unbound,  259. 
Proserpine,  Song  of,  549. 

Queen  Mab,  27. 

of  my  Hear*,  To  the,  674. 

Question,  The,  550. 

Rain,  583. 

and  Wind,  530. 

Recollection,  The,  590. 

Cancelled  Passage,  591. 

Remembrance,  569. 

Reminiscence  and  Desire,  529. 

Republicans  of  North  America,  To  the,  671. 

Retrospect,  The,  678. 

Reviewer,  Lines  to  a,  557. 

Revolt  of  Islam,  The,  117. 

Roman's  Chamber,  A,  530. 

Rome  and  Nature,  530. 

Rosa,  Sister,  657. 

Rosalind  and  Helen,  232. 

Rude  Wind,  The,  584. 

Saint  Irvyne's  Tower,  658. 

Satan  at  Large,  504. 

Satire  on  Satire,  Fragment  of  a,  558. 

St.  Irvyne,  or  the  Rosicrucian,  Poems  from,  656. 

Scene  from  Tasso,  511. 

Scenes  from  Calderon's  Magico  Prodigioso,  632. 


Scenes  from  Goethe's  Faust,  643. 

Sea,  a  Vision  of  the,  536. 

Sensitive  Plant,  The,  531 ;  Cancelled  Passage  of, 

536. 

Serenade,  The  Indian,  526. 

Cancelled  Passage,  526. 

Serchio,  The  Boat  on  the,  580. 

Shelley,  Mary,  To  (two  poems),  527. 

William,  To,  501,  526,  527. 

William,  Original   Draft   of  the   Poem  to, 

502. 

Sidmouth  and  Castlereagh,  To,  521. 

Silence,  To,  518. 

Similes  for  two  Political  Characters  of  1819,  521. 

Sister  Rosa,  657. 

Skylark,  To  a,  541. 

Society  as  it  is,  Tale  of  a,  669. 

Solitary,  The,  654. 

Solitude,  The  Spirit  of  (Alastor),  104. 

Song  for  Tasso,  511. 

from  the  Wandering  Jew,  653. 

oi  Proserpine,  while  gathering  Flowers  on 

the  Plain  of  Enna,  549. 

of  the  Furies,  529. 

"  Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou,"  567. 

to  the  Men  of  England,  520. 

Sonnet:   England  in  1819,  522. 

from  the  Italian  of  Cavalcanti,  632. 

from  the  Italian  of  Dante,  629. 

"  Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who 

live,"  518. 

On    Launching    some    Bottles    filled    with 

Knowledge  into  the  Bristol  Channel,  681. 

Political  Greatness,  569. 

To  a  Balloon  laden  with  Knowledge,  681. 

to  Byron,  582. 

"Ye  hasten  to  the  grave!     What  seek   ye 

there,"  557. 
Sophia  [Miss  Stacey],  To,  526. 
South,  The  Lady  of  the,  583. 
Spectral  Horseman,  The,  665. 
Spirit,  Great,  584. 
Spirit  of  Plato,  627. 
Spirits,  The  Two  :   An  Allegory,  551. 
Stacey,  Miss  Sophia,  526. 

Stanza  from  a  Translation  of   the    Marseillaise 
Hymn,  676. 

"  If  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even,"  583. 

written  at  Bracknell,  485. 

Stanzas — April   1814,485. 

written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples,  513. 

Star,  To  a,  668. 
Stella,  To,  627. 
Story,  A  gentle,  528. 
Stream's  Margin,  The,  519. 
Summer  and  Winter,  556. 

Evening   Churchyard,    Lechlade,    Glouces- 
tershire, 487. 
Sun,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  613. 
Sunset,  The,  490. 
Swellfoot  the  'lyrant,  394. 

Tale  of  Society,  A,  as  it  is:  From  Facts,  1811, 
669. 

Untold,  A,  530. 

"Tasso,"  Scene  from,  511  ;  Song  for,  511. 

The  Fight  was  o'er,  504. 

Thoughts  in  Solitude,  504. 

Time,  565. 

Long  Past,  562. 


INDEX    TO     THE    POEMS. 


701 


To  Death:  "  Death!  where  is  thy  victory?"  654. 
i'u   Miry  :  "  O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were 

here,"  507. 
I  Dinb  of  Memory,  The,  529. 
To-morrow,  583. 
In  One  treed  from  Prison,  503. 
To  One  Singing,  499. 
To :  "  1  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden," 

547- 

I'u :  "  Music,  when  soft  voices  die,"  567. 

To  :   "One  word  is  too  often  profaned," 


r,. 


>7'- 


When  Passion's  trance  is  overpast," 
take    not   thine 


To :  "  Yet  look  on  me 

eyes  away,"  4S6. 
Tower  of  Famine,  The,  556. 
Triumph  of  Life,  The,  474. 

I'gouno,  675. 

Unfinished  Drama,  Fragments  of  an,  456. 

Unrisen  Splendor,  563. 

Unsatisfied  Desire,  504. 

Variation  of  the  Lyric  to  the  Moon,  530. 
Venus,  Homer's  Hymn  to,  614. 
Vergil's  Tenth  Eclogue,  From,  629. 


Verses  on  a  Cat,  632. 

Victoria,  656. 

Vine  amid  Ruins,  The,  519. 

Violet,  on  a  faded,  507. 

Vision  of  the  Sea,  A,  536. 

Visitations  of  Calm  Thoughts,  529. 

Vita  Nuova  of  Dante,  Fragment  adapted  front 

the,  632. 
Viviani,  Emilia,  To,  409,  566. 

Wanuekek,  A,  583. 

Wandering  Jew,  Fragment  from  the,  653. 

Weariness,  563. 

West  Wind,  Ode  to  the,  524. 

"  What  men  gain  fairly,"  521. 

Williams,  Edward,  To,  570. 

Wind,  The  Rude,  584. 

Wine  of  Eglantine,  530. 

Witch  of  Atlas,  The,  381. 

Woodman  and  the  Nightingale,  The,  513. 

Wordsworth,  To,  488. 

World's  Wanderers,  The,  557, 

Year,  Dirge  for  the,  564. 

Zephyr,  To  the,  583. 
Zucca,  The,  586. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.* 


A  cat  in  distress,  652. 

A  gentle  story  of  two  lovers  young,  528. 

A  glorious  people  vibrated  again,  542. 

A  golden-winged  Angel  stood,  504. 

A  hater  he  came  and  sat  by  a  ditch,  504. 

A  man  who  was  about  to  hang  himself,  627. 

A  mighty  Phantasm,  half  concealed,  434. 

A  pale  dream  came  to  a  Lady  fair,  496. 

A  portal  as  of  shadowy  adamant,  557. 

A  scene  which  wildered  fancy  viewed,  678. 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew,  531. 

A  shovel  of  his  ashes  took,  495. 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning,  474. 

A  woodman  whose  rough  heart  was  out  of  tune, 

Ah !    faint   are    her   limbs,    and   her  footstep  is 

weary,  659. 
Alas,  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see,  557. 
Alas  !  this  is  not  what  I  thought  life  was,  563. 
Ambition,  power,  and  avarice,  now  have  hurled, 

660. 
Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city,  556. 
And  canst    thou  mock  mine  agony,  thus  calm, 

663. 
And  earnest  to  explore  within  —  around,  631. 
And  ever  as  he  went  he  swept  a  lyre,  433. 
And,  if  my  grief   should   still  be  dearer  to  me, 

457- 
And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale,  555. 
And  many  there  were  hurt  by  that  strong  boy, 

572. 
And  Peter  Bell,  when  he  had  been,  363. 
And  that  I  walk  thus  proudly  crowned  withal, 

584. 
And  the  green  Paradise  which  western  waves, 

433- 
And  then  came  one  of  sweet  and  earnest  looks, 

434- 
And  what  is  that  most  brief  and  bright  delight, 

421. 
And  where  is   truth?     On  tombs?    for  such  to 

thee,  529. 
And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow,  528. 
An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying  king, 

522. 
Arethusa  arose,  548. 
Ariel  to  Miranda. — Take,  591. 
Arise,  arise,  arise,  522. 
Art  thou  indeed  forever  gone,  666. 


Art  thou  pale  for  weariness,  555. 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye,  530. 

As  from  an  ancestral  oak,  521. 

As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy,  355. 

As  the  sunrise  to  the  night,  530. 

At  the  creation  of  the  Earth,  528. 

Away  !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon,  485. 

Bear  witness,  Erin  !  when  thine  injured  isle,  671. 
Before  those  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one  birth,  38a. 
Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering  sea,  171. 
Best  and  brightest,  come  away,  589. 
Bright  ball  of  flame  that  thro'  the  gloom  of  even, 

681. 
Bright  wanderer,  fair  coquette  of  heaven,  593. 
Brothers  !  between  you  and  me,  671. 
"  Buona  notte,  buona  notte !  "  —  Come  mai,  559. 
By  the  mossy  brink,  668. 

Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset !   swift  and  strong, 

168. 
Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air,  525. 
Come,  be  happy  !  — sit  near  me,  512. 
Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind,  232. 
Come,  thou  awakener  of  the  spirit's  ocean,  583. 
Corpses  are  cold  in  the  tomb,  520. 

Dares  the  llama,  most  fleet  of  the  sons  of  the 

wind,  667. 
Dar'st  thou  amid  the  varied  multitude,  654. 
Daughters  of  Jove,  whose  voice  is  melody,  612. 
Dearest,  best  and  brightest,  677. 
Dear  home,   thou   scene  of   earliest  hopes   and 

joys,  495. 
Death  is  here  and  death  is  there,  555. 
Death!  where  is  thy  victory,  654. 
Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly  come  to  end,  341. 
"  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry,  569. 

Eagle!  why  soarest  thou  above  that  tomb,  627. 
Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood,  104. 
Ever  as  now  with  Love  and  Virtue's  glow,  680. 

Faint  with  love,  the  lady  of  the  South,  583. 
Fairest  of  the  Destinies,  576. 
P'alse  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep,  348. 
Far,  far  away,  O  ye,  565. 

Flourishing  vine,  whose  kindling  clusters  glow, 
5i9- 


1  Including  the  first  lines  of  some  Lyrics  which  appear  in  the  longer  poems. 
702 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


703 


Follow  to  the  deep  wood's  weeds,  528. 

For  me,  my  friend,  if  not  that  tears  did  tremble, 
503. 

"or  my   dagger  is  bathed  in  the  blood  of   the 

.  brave,  653. 

From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven  thou  hast  de- 
scended, 275. 

"•"rom  the  cities  where  from  caves,  531. 

From  the  forests  and  highlands,  550. 

Gather,  O  gather,  523. 

Ghosts  of  the  dead  :  have  I  not  heard  your  yell- 
ing, 656. 

God  prosper,  speed,  and  save,  522. 

Good-night!  ah  I  no;  the  hour  is  ill,  558. 

Grant  me  your  patience,  Gentlemen  and  Boars, 
402. 

Great  Spirit,  whom  the  sea  of  boundless  thought, 
584. 

Guido,  I  would  that  Lapo,  thou,  and  I,  629. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit,  541. 

Hail  to  thee,  Cambria !  for  the  unfettered  wind, 

681. 
Hark  !  the  owlet  flaps  his  wings,  652. 
He  came  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of  life,  457. 
H^igho  !  the  lark  and  the  owl  !  474. 
"  Here   lieth    One    whose    name   was  writ    on 

water,"  582. 
Here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  new  book  for  you,  419. 
Here,  oh,  here,  294. 
Her  hair  was  brown,   her  sphered  eyes   were 

brown,  231. 
Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted,  502. 
He  wanders,  like  a  day-appearing  dream,  583. 
Hie  sinu  fessum  caput  hospitali,  652. 
His  face  was  like  a  snake's  —  wrinkled  and  loose, 

563- 
Honey  from  silkworms  who  can  gather,  504. 
Hopes,  that  swell  in  youthful  breasts,  655. 
How  eloquent  are  eyes,  655. 
How,  my  dear  Mary,  are  you  critic-bitten,  381. 
How  stern  are  the  woes  of  the  desolate  mourner, 

659. 
How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  and  read  the  tales,  529. 
How  swiftly  through  heaven's  wide  expanse,  658. 
How  wonderful  is  Death,  27. 
How  wonderful  is  Death,  94. 

I  am  as  a  spirit  who  has  dwelt,  529. 

I  am  drunk  with  the  honey  wine,  530. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  526. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

540. 
I  could  stand,  676. 

I  dreamed  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way,  550. 
I  dreamed  that   Milton's  spirit  rose,  and  took, 

5^3- 
I  faint,  I  perish  with  my  love  !     I  grow,  583. 
I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden,  547. 
I  hated  thee,  fallen  tyrant!   I  did  groan,  488. 
I  love  thee,  Baby  !  for  thine  own  sweet  sake,  676. 
I  loved  —  alas!  our  life  is  love,  511. 
I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land,  505. 
I  mourn  Adonis  dead  —  loveliest  Adonis,  627. 
I  pant  for  the  music  which  is  divine,  582. 
I  rode  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo,  248. 
I  sate  beside  the  steersman  then,  and,  gazing,  189. 
I  sing  the  glorious  Power  with  azure  eyes,  614. 
I  stood  within  the  city  disinterred,  552. 


I  weep  for  Adonaia  —  he  is  dead,  aaj. 

I  went  into  the  deserts  of  dim  sleep,  562. 

1  would  not  be  a  king  —  enough,  576. 

If  gibbets,  axes,  confiscations,  chains,  558. 

If  I  esteemed  you  less,  Envy  would  kill,  58a, 

If  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even,  583. 

Inter  marmoreas  Leonora  pendula  colles,  652, 

In  the  cave  which  wild  weeds  cover,  530. 

In  the  great  morning  of  the  world,  437. 

In  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  calm  place,  632. 

Is  it  that  in  some  brighter  sphere,  529. 

Is  not  to-day  enough  ?     Why  do  1  peer,  529. 

It  floats  with  rainbow  pinions  o'er  the  stream, 

421. 
It  is  not  blasphemy  to  hope  that  Heaven,  680. 
It  is  the  day  when  ail  the  sons  of  God,  573. 
It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky,  527. 
It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon,  556. 

Kissing  Helena,  together,  627. 

Let  those  who  pine  in  pride  or  in  revenge,  515. 

Life  of  Life!  thy  lips  enkindle,  2S5. 

Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live, 

518. 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead,  562. 
Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine,  506. 

Madonna,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me,  5O6. 
Maiden,  quench  the  glare  of  sorrow,  669. 
Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be,  507. 
Melodious  Arethusa,  o'er  my  verse,  629. 
Men  of  England,  wherefore  plough,  520. 
Methought  a  star  came  down  from  heaven,  459. 
Methought  I  was  a  billow  in  the  crowd,  583. 
Mighty  eagle  !  thou  that  soarest,  499. 
Mine  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  unshed,  485. 
Monarch  of  Gods  and  Daemons,  and  all  Spirits, 

262. 
Month  after  month  the  gathered  rains  descend, 

506. 
Moonbeam,  leave  the  shadowy  vale,  654. 
Muse,  sing  the  deeds  of  golden  Aphrodite,  614. 
Music,  when  soft  voices  die,  567. 
My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning,  2S4. 
My   dearest    Mary,   wherefore   hast   thou  gone, 

52.7- 
My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light,  566. 
My  head  is  heavy,  my  limbs  are  weary,  563 
My  head  is  wild  with  weeping  for  a  grief,  519. 
My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom,  526. 
My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few,  409- 
My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat,  285. 
My  spirit  like  a  charmed  bark  doth  swim,  499. 
My  thoughts  arise  and  fade  in  solitude,  504. 

Night,  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down,  571. 
Night !  with  all  thine  eyes  look  down,  572. 
No  access  to  the  Duke !    You  have  not  said,  511. 
No,   Music,  thou  art  not  the   "food  of  Love," 

499. 
No  trump  tells  thy  virtues  —  the  grave  where  they 

rest,  678. 
Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame,  569. 
Not  far  from  hence.     \  rom  yonder  pointed  hill, 

559- 
Now  the  last  day  of  many  days,  590. 

O  Bacchus,  what  a  world  of  toil,  both  now,  61  y 
O,  follow,  follow,  278. 


704 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


O  happy  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven,  56. 

O  happy  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven,  98. 

O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here,  507. 

O  mighty  mind,  in  whose  deep  stream  this  age, 

518. 
O  pillow  cold  and  wet  with  tears,  526. 
O  that  a  chariot  of  cloud  were  mine,  503. 
O  thou  bright  Sun !  beneath  the  dark  blue  line, 

676. 
O  thou  immortal  deity,  584. 
O  thou,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire,  551. 
O    thou  whose    dear  love    gleamed    upon    the 

gloomy  path,  671. 
O  universal  mother,  who  dost  keep,  613. 
O  wild  West  Wind,   thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being,  524. 
O  world :   O  life  !  O  time,  569. 
Offspring  of  Jove,  Calliope,  once  more,  613. 
Oh!    take   the   pure    gem    to  where    southerly 

breezes,  667. 
Oh !   there  are  spirits  of  the  air,  488. 
Old  winter  was  gone,  579. 
On   the   brink   of    the   night  and  the   morning, 

284. 
Once,  early  in  the  morning,  671. 
One  sung  of  thee  who  left  the  tale  untold,  530. 
One  word  is  too  often  profaned,  571. 
Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead,  564. 
Our  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio's  stream,  580. 
Out  of  the  eastern  shadow  of  the  Earth,  485. 
Over  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped,  158. 

Palace-roof  of  cloudless  nights,  523. 

Pan  loved  his  neighbor  Echo  —  but  that  child, 

629. 
People    of    England,   ye   who    toil   and  groan, 

523- 
Perhaps  the  only  comfort  which  remains,  259. 
Peter  Bells,  one,  two,  and  three,  362. 
Place,  for  the  Marshal  of  the  Mask,  461. 
Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know,  488. 
Prince  Athanase  had  one  beloved  friend,  228. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day,  677. 
Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou,  567. 
Reach    me    that   handkerchief !  —  my    brain    is 

hurt,  324. 
Returning  from  its  daily  quest,  my  Spirit,  632. 
Rome  has  fallen,  ye  see  it  lying,  530. 
Rough  wind,  thou  moanest  loud,  592. 

Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth,  549. 

See  yon  opening  flower,  653. 

Shall  we  roam  my  love,  674. 

She  comes  not;  yet  I  left  her  even  now,  332. 

She  left  me  at  the  silent  time,  592. 

She  saw  me  not  —  she  heard  me  not  —  alone,  211. 

She  was  an  aged  woman  ;  and  the  years,  669. 

Silence  !  O  well  are  Death  and  Sleep  and  Thou, 

518. 
Silver  key  of  the  fountain  of  tears,  499. 
Sing,  Muse,  the  son  of  Maia  and  of  Jove,  598. 
"  Sleep,  sleep  on  !  forget  thy  pain,  588. 
So  now  my  summer  task  is  ended,  Mary,  122. 
So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray,  181. 
Such  hope,  as  is  the  sick  despair  of  good,  563. 
Such  was  Zonoras;  and  as  daylight  finds,  220- 
Summer  was   dead   and   Autumn  was  expiring, 

586. 
Sweet  Spirit !   Sister  of  that  orphan  one,  409. 


Sweet  star,  which  gleaming  o'er  the  darksome 

scene,  668. 
Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task,  474. 
Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight,  569. 
Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave,  565. 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light,  557. 
That  matter  of  the  murder  is  husht  up,  311. 
That  night  we  anchored  in  a  woody  bay,  195. 
That  time  is  dead  forever,  child,  502. 
The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power,  491. 
The  babe  is  at  peace  within  the  womb,  583. 
The  billows  on  the  beach  are  leaping  around  it, 

501. 
The  cold  earth  slept  below,  489. 
The  death-bell  beats,  657. 

The  Elements  respect  their  Maker's  seal,  653. 
The  everlasting  universe  of  things,  492. 
The  fierce  beasts  of  the  woods  and  wildernesses, 

5'9- 
The  fiery  mountains  answer  each  other,  555. 
The   fight   was   o'er :    the    flashing   through   the 

gloom,  504. 
The  fitful  alternations  of  the  rain,  530. 
The  flower  that  smiles  to-day,  568. 
The  Fountains  mingle  with  the  River,  5280 
The  gentleness  of  rain  was  in  the  wind,  583. 
The  golden  gates  of  Sleep  unbar,  571. 
The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  madness, 

299. 
The  keen  stars  were  twinkling,  592. 
The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone,  507. 
The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  soon  the  bark, 

152. 
The  pale  stars  are  gone,  294 
The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony  smile,  486. 
The  rose  that  drinks  the  fountain  dew,  499. 
The  rude  wind  is  singing,  584. 
The  season  was  the  childhood  of  sweet  June,  561. 
The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise,  570. 
The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie,  549. 
The   spider  spreads  her  webs,  whether  she  be, 

376. 
The  starlight  smile  of  children,  the  sweet  looks, 

136. 
The  sun  is  set ;  the  swallows  are  asleep,  580. 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear,  513. 
The  sun  makes  music  as  of  old,  643. 
The  transport  of  a  fierce  and  monstrous  gladness, 

216. 
The  viewless  and  invisible  Consequence,  562. 
The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wail- 
ing. 555- 
The  waters  are  flashing,  566. 
The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere, 

487. 
The  world  is  dreary,  527. 
The  world  is  now  our  dwelling-place,  502. 
The  world's  great  age  begins  anew,  452. 
Their  moss  rotted  off  them,  flake  by  flake,  536. 
There  is  a  voice,  not  understood  by  all,  495. 
There  is  a  warm  and  gentle  atmosphere,  528. 
There  late  was  One  within  whose  subtle  being, 

490. 
There  was  a  little  lawny  islet,  593. 
There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place,  533. 
There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil  and  travel, 

226. 
These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were  undi> 

vided,  593. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


705 


They  die  —  the  dead  return  not  —  Misery,  502. 
This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm,  303. 
Those  whom  nor  power,  nor  lying  faith,  nor  toil, 

5°3- 
Thou  art  fair,  and  few  are  fairer,  526. 
Thou  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness  is  all,  231. 
Thou  supreme  Goddess !   by  whose  power  divine, 

395- 
Thou  wert  not,  Cassius,  and  thou  couldst  not  be, 

502. 
Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the  living, 

627. 
Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair,  534. 
Thus  to  be  lost  and  thus  to  sink  and  die,  498. 
Thy  country's  curse  is  on  thee,  darkest  crest, 

499. 
Thy  dewy  looks  sink  in  my  breast,  485. 
Thy  little  footsteps  on  the  sands,  527. 
'T  is  midnight  now  — athwart  the  murky  air,  662. 
'T  is  the  terror  of  tempest.    The  rags  of  the  sail, 

536. 
To  the  deep,  to  the  deep,  281. 
To  thirst  and  find  no  fill  —  to  wail  and  wander, 

504- 
Tremble  Kings  despised  of  man,  666. 
'T  was  at  the  season  when  the   Earth  upsprings, 

230. 
'T  was  dead  of  the  night,  when  I  sat  in  my  dwell- 
ing, 656. 

Unfathomable  Sea !    whose  waves  are  years, 

565- 
Unrisen  splendor  of  the  brightest  sun,  563. 

Vessels  of  heavenly  medicine  !  may  the  breeze, 

681. 
Victorious  wrong,  with  vulture  scream,  451. 

tV\\KE  the  serpent  not  —  lest  he,  530. 
Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed,  202. 
Wealth  and  dominion  fade  into  the  mass,  504. 
We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the   midnight  moon, 

486. 
We  meet  not  as  we  parted,  593. 
We  strew  these  opiate  flowers,  436. 
Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy  ;  he  struck  but  me,  318. 
Were  it  not  a  sweet  refuge,  Emily,  422. 


Were  not  the  crocuses  that  grew,  591. 

What !  alive  and  so  bold,  oh  earth,  568. 

What  art  thou,  Presumptuous,   who  profanest, 

5*4- 
What  is  that  joy  which  serene  infancy,  421. 
What  Marv  is  when  she  a  little  smiles,  632. 
What  men  gain   fairly  —  that  they  should  pos- 
sess, 521. 
What  think  you  the  dead  are,  258. 
What   thoughts   had   sway  o'er  Cythna's  lonely 

slumber,  145. 
What  was  the  shriek  that  struck  fancy's  ear,  665. 
When  a  lover  clasps  his  fairest,  529. 
When  passion's  trance  is  overpast,  571. 
When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies,  583. 
When  the  lamp  is  shattered,  588. 
When    the   last   hope   of    trampled    France   had 

failed,  124. 
When   winds    that    move   not   its   calm   surface 

sweep,  628. 
Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow,  583. 
Where  man's  profane  and  tainting  hand,  681. 
Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that,  536. 
Whilst  monarchs  laughed  upon  their  thrones,  61. 
Whose  is  the  love  that,  gleaming  thro'  the  world, 
■  27. 

Why  is  it  said  thou  canst  not  live,  668. 
Wild,   pale,  and  wonder-stricken,  even  as   one, 

576. 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours,  507. 
Within  a  cavern  of  man's  trackless  spirit,  547. 
Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever,  439. 
Would  1  were  the  winged  cloud,  446. 
Would  you  not  like  a  broomstick?    As  forme, 

645- 

Ye  congregated  powers  of  heaven,    who  share, 

2S6. 
Ye  Dorian  woods  and  waves  lament  aloud,  628. 
Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought,  529. 
Ye  hasten  to  the  grave !     What  seek  ye  there, 

Ye  who  intelligent  the  third  heaven  move,  630. 
Ye   wild-eyed  Muses,  sing  the  Twins   of  Jove, 

612. 
Yes!  all  is  past—  swift  time  has  fled  away,  664. 
Yet  look  on  me  —  take  not  thine  eyes  away,  486. 


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